


The Calm Before the Storm

by spnredemption



Series: Redemption Road [32]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnredemption/pseuds/spnredemption
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The world's ending, but for the first time in a long while, their insular Winchester world feels like it's just beginning.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Calm Before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> **Masterpost:** **[Supernatural: Redemption Road](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/1552.html)** (for full series info, warnings, and disclaimer)  
>  **Author:** [](http://nyoka.livejournal.com/profile)[**nyoka**](http://nyoka.livejournal.com/) and [](http://murron.livejournal.com/profile)[**murron**](http://murron.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Dean/Castiel, Sam  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Word Count:** ~36,150  
>  **Warnings:** language  
>  **Beta:** [](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/profile)[**zatnikatel**](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Notes:** Thanks to [](http://swordofmymouth.livejournal.com/profile)[**swordofmymouth**](http://swordofmymouth.livejournal.com/) for contributing a scene to this episode. Quoted in this episode: H.P. Lovecraft's _The Call of Cthulhu_ and _At the Mountains of Madness and Other Tales of Terror_.  
>  **Art:** Chapter banner by [](http://kasienka-nikki.livejournal.com/profile)[**kasienka_nikki**](http://kasienka-nikki.livejournal.com/) , altered with permission; digital drawings by [](http://sanwall.livejournal.com/profile)[**sanwall**](http://sanwall.livejournal.com/) , which you can also find **[here](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/33259.html)** , and digital drawings by [](http://ryuu-artist.livejournal.com/profile)[**ryuu_artist**](http://ryuu-artist.livejournal.com/) , which you can also find **[here](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/33492.html)** (art contains spoilers for the chapter).

  


**I: The Hinterlands**  


Nor is it to be thought that man is either the oldest or the last of Earth's masters, or that the common bulk of life and substance walks alone. The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them. They walk serene and primal, undimensioned and to us unseen. — _The Necronomicon_  


_Loutown, West Virginia_

The town isn't on any map they've seen before. A forgotten coal-mining settlement, it can only be reached via a winding path up through the mountains, through acres of dense forest with tree limbs so thick they block out the sky.

All eighty-seven residents are dead. Their bodies are piled together in the town center, roasting in the summer heat. Dean has to smother down his need to gag, turn his head away from the rancid stench, the sound of buzzing flies, and the squawks of carrion birds. Castiel, though, is expressionless, his face smooth and placid, even as the wind tosses his hair across his eyes.

"This is," Dean stops, swallowing back bile as he looks at the body of a little girl, white dress smeared with blood. "I don't know what the hell this is."

"They all went mad and killed each other," Castiel says, voice barely above a whisper. He tilts his head toward the markings painted across the doors of all the Main Street businesses. Symbols written in blood. The townspeople's own blood.

The rest of Loutown's main strip is barren. A few cars litter the street, doors thrown open, keys still in the ignition as if the residents had been making a run for it. But they weren't fast enough to get away before the madness reached them.

A gust of wind blows through the town, carrying the scent of blood and death. Dean pauses, back pressed up against Castiel's as they take stock of their surroundings. They stand together for a long moment, observing the haunted quiet of the town, the cold gray of the old buildings, the smoky tendrils of burnt remains. It's a place that was mostly ruins to begin with, even before the massacre, a post-Industrial wasteland of old factories and shuttered storefronts.

  


"We should keep at it," Dean says, breaking the silence eventually.

"This place feels wrong," Castiel says quietly, and then, more slowly, "You must understand that the creature that walked here before us left a powerful taint."

Dean turns his eyes toward the charred fields and blackened trees, where a woman's bloody dress is caught and blowing with the breeze. "You can say that again," he grunts.

"It must have been very powerful in order to manipulate them, to drive them to do this," Castiel continues, kneeling down to examine what had once been a pimple-faced teenager. The boy's chest is bare, filleted and ripped open so wide Dean can see the white of his rib bones.

"You definitely think it's one of the creatures we've been researching?" Dean asks, thinking back to the list of monsters associated with Cthulhu's rise.

"The markings on the doors are of the same linguistic family as the symbol we uncovered on Crowley's dagger, as well as the symbols the cult bore on their skin," Castiel says, eyeing Dean for a long moment.

" _Fuckshitdamn_ ," Dean whispers, running his hand across his face as he sucks in a deep breath, the ever-present feeling of dread twisting his stomach into tighter and tighter knots.

"We should see more of the town before evening," Castiel says with a steady voice, jumping to his feet, graceful and fast. Dean follows after a moment, eyes trailing over the pile of bodies.

They cover the entire town in about two hours. By the time they take a rest, the noon-day sun is high, its rays cutting through the trees in strips of gold and orange. The sky itself is clear and blue; it would be a perfect Sunday afternoon if anyone was still alive in the town to enjoy it. But all Dean and Castiel find are decapitated pets, burned-down houses, and plowed-over gardens.

"We should call Sam to see if he and Bobby are finished going through the Cthulhu archive at Miskatonic University," Dean says, after they've exited the last gutted home on Pearl Street. He takes a breath, adds, "We really need to regroup, figure out a next step. We can probably meet them back at Bobby's place."

They've been knee-deep in research mode for the past couple of weeks, Sam and Bobby hitting all the arcane literature, folklore, and occult collections at major universities, while Dean and Castiel continued to follow the growing trail of bodies.

Castiel's silence draws long and heavy before he speaks again. "We also need to discuss my dreams. What they mean."

Dean groans, shaking his head. "Cas, we've been over this. You can't even remember them."

"Then we find a way to _make_ me remember," Castiel says, voice sharp and low as he turns his gaze on Dean. There's a fierce determinedness to Castiel's expression, and Dean closes his eyes to escape it.

They've been on edge for the past two weeks, the revelation of who – no, of _what_ – they're up against pushing them all a little bit closer to crazy.

"Cas, just..." Dean says, pausing to run a hand through his hair. _Please._

"Dean," Castiel says, eyes catching Dean's own. "You're letting fear cloud your judgment. You know we have to find a way to dig deeper into my subconscious."

Dean huffs out a tired breath, placing his hands in his jacket pockets as he meets Castiel's gaze head-on. "Who can we even go to for help with that except Missouri?" he asks quietly. "You've already said you won't risk her being hurt, but who else is there? Who would know anything about an angel who's died and come back so many times we've lost count, who became a friggin' _god_ and then a man. Who chants things in his dreams that he can't remember. There's no book for this."

Castiel doesn't answer. He twists his lean body to the side and heads toward the abandoned playground belonging to the schoolyard in front of them.

A dog is gutted and hanging from a hook on the swing set. The body is swollen, its stomach and chest a dark cavity of flayed meat and bones.

"Christ," Dean whispers because _what the hell_?

Cas bends to take a closer look at the animal. "They've carved the same symbols into the lining of its stomach muscles."

"And then strung the poor thing up ritualistically," Dean says, his boots just barely avoiding stepping in puddles of the animal's blood. He observes the way the red stains the pale grass and the brittle yellow weeds.

Distantly, he hears Castiel say, "Like an offering to a god."

Dean drives north toward the highway, windows rolled down to let the wind whip at the collar of his jacket, whisk away thoughts weighed down by blood and death. It feels good to be driving further away from the carnage. This far from the dead town, the air once again smells like summer weeds and long grass.

Music winds low from the speakers, a Jimmy Page guitar solo that Dean lets ease his rattled nerves a little. He turns his head for a moment, watches as Cas fits himself easily into the shotgun seat, his lithe body curling loosely over the sun-warmed leather. The evening light washes over his skin, highlights the shadows around his eyes, the dark scruff at his cheekbones. Neither of them have shaved in days, or gotten much sleep.

"Where to now?" Dean asks while his fingers tap against the wheel, following the music's beat.

Castiel looks through the windshield at the wide and empty road, the open country spilling around them. "We still need answers."

Dean sucks in a breath, nodding as his eyes linger on the blacktop of the newly-paved highway. "I know that, man."

"Maybe we should think again about tracking down Meg," Castiel offers quietly. "Or one of my brothers."

"No," Dean snaps, fingers curling tighter around the wheel. "We've discussed this, Cas."

"Yes, we have," Castiel nods shortly, sitting up and perfecting his vintage sort of military stiffness that looks so out of place while he wears his thrift-store _Goonies_ t-shirt and tattered jeans. "But we're still nowhere closer to answers than we were two weeks ago."

"Look, I know things are looking bad," Dean says. "Real bad. But we got to try alternative routes before we go crawling back to angels and demons for answers."

"Maybe," Castiel huffs, frustration evident in his voice.

"Cas, please," Dean insists, twisting to look at him, not even sure what he's asking.

Castiel regards him with eyes that look entirely too human. "I don't know what you want me to say to you, Dean."

Dean swallows, hesitating. Says, "I just need you to trust me on this. To not go running off behind my back to deal with this on your own." _Like last time_ , goes unsaid.

Castiel nods but doesn't say anything, turning back to watch the countryside rolling by through the window. On both sides of the highway, stalks of corn push up against the road, moving in the wind like an endless expanse of golden ocean waves.

"We should meet Sam and Bobby then," Castiel says after a moment, turning his attention back to Dean. "Plus, we both need rest."

"Yeah, we do," Dean says, exhaling softly. He stares at Cas for a long moment, and the angel stares right back at him.

They don't speak for another twenty miles.

_Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

It lingers sometimes. The chill of Hell, that feeling of ice trickling across every nerve ending of his body, like a constant warning: something's coming. Something bad. Maybe that's why these days, Sam can never stay warm.

He found one of his old hoodies Dean packed up after Stull, folded down in a box of Sam's old books, keepsakes, and journals Dean had stored at Bobby's. Sam wears the hoodie sometimes, needing the familiarity of it, the memory of its warmth; when he wears it, he's reminded of a time _before_. Before the visions, Azazel, his demon blood addiction, Ruby, and the almost-apocalypse. A time before Lucifer, Michael, and the icy chill of the Cage. Before all those things he did when he didn't have a soul. Even though the jacket's too small on his broad frame now, and the cotton's faded to a dull, worn brown, Sam still wears it. Still remembers who he was _before_.

Dusk is spreading light across the sky as Sam drives Bobby's rusted Ford pickup out past Highway 80, into a barren stretch of South Dakota hillside that bleeds red at the sunset. To the east, the Badlands remind him of the carved-out valleys of the Cage, the deep ravines that Lucifer flew across when he shone at his brightest. The land here is older than even the angels, long eroded by water and wind. Its red-stained canyons, spires, and gorges speak stories of times long forgotten, of histories washed away.

Maybe that's why Sam likes coming here when he has free time. The past is just that...past. Dean's always worried when Sam comes home in the evenings after one of his long drives, worried that Sam would have gotten caught in one of his seizure-inducing daymares, or maybe even worried that Sam would just up and decide to keep driving. To leave Dean again.

Sam just huffs and bitches at his brother for playing Mother Hen, for worrying too much. Sam tells Dean to "go look after Cas," or "go look after Bobby." Or more and more, "go look after yourself, Dean." Dean usually just rolls his eyes and tosses Sam a cold beer, before going off to work on the Impala, to brood in the silence of something familiar.

The ridge Sam's following leads to a row of sharp pinnacles that resemble Gothic church spires. Its slopes look like gashes in the rust-colored earth: old wounds and old disasters. Cheney barks from where he's seated in the passenger seat beside Sam in the pickup, head lolling out of the window. Because Dean doesn't like him going out alone so much, Sam compromised by saying he'd bring Bobby's dog along. Dean had scowled, and Sam had only smiled, arguing that he technically wouldn't be _alone_. Sam looks at Cheney now and ruffles the dog's ears affectionately, smirking when it lets out a pleased growl.

"We're already here, boy," Sam says to himself more than the old rottweiler, and the wheels of the pickup kick up rocks and gravel when he pulls into the clearing.

Sam sits in the truck for a long while before he turns off the grumbling engine and climbs out, settling down with Cheney at the foot of the ravine. It's early morning, and the sky is striated in bands of blue and sapphire. He shivers, and Sam wants to believe it's just a reaction to the last of the early-morning chill, not a reaction to the ever-present sense of _something's coming_.

Something _is_ coming, though. They know that now. They know _what_ now. Meg's mocking words haunt Sam's dreams:

_...the baddest bad you've ever come across and then multiply it by, oh, a thousand. The seas will rise up to claim the land, and the cities of man will sink beneath the waves._

Sam shuts his eyes, thinking about the last _baddest bad_ he ever came across. Lucifer. The memory of his light is so bright it's blinding. The devil's taunts used to fill Sam's head with dissonance and pain. Lucifer's anger was a force that could move mountains. He was Sam, and Sam was him.

Cheney whines for attention, and Sam gratefully turns his thoughts back to the dog, running the rough pads of his fingers along the silky black fur behind its neck. The world feels different, more solid. Sam feels different, less solid. Most days it feels like he and Dean are still mourning who they used to be. _Before_. If the world's ending again, Sam doesn't know what it will cost them all this time. What will be left of them when this is all over.

Cheney stretches out along his back, presenting his belly for rubbing. Sam indulges, smiling at the dog's grunts of pleasure. He's missed the old dog considering he and Bobby spent most of the past two weeks on the road, meeting with scholars and occultists, historians and lit majors. Anyone who wrote a senior thesis on Lovecraft's influences. He suspects Cheney didn't miss them, pampered as he was on his vacation at Marcy Ward's.

Sam turns back to watching the washed-out summer sky, sipping coffee from his thermos. The air is still and damp, and its cold freshness surrounds him. This is what Sam came out here for: some quiet, a little alone-time away from Bobby's scowls and Dean and Castiel's heavy silences. Everyone's walking around ready to burst at the seams. And it's driving Sam out of his head.

Plus, Sam is not ashamed to admit he's a bit worried about Mira. He knows she can take care of herself, but he hasn't heard from her in almost a week. Last time she made contact, she was preparing to head out to a small village on the Peruvian coast, where a dark fog had rolled in from the mountains, bringing with it such horrors that stories of _la oscuridad_ had spread all across the region.

The world's ending, and now Sam's beginning to measure every crisis in the number of victims and survivors. Instead of getting buried under the madness, though, he tries to think of the good times. Like that week off they spent in Augusta in March, in a homey bed-and-breakfast with yellow curtains and freshly baked pies for dinner. Sam remembers sitting under a peach tree near the dirt road leading up to the house, watching Dean instruct Castiel in the fine art of driving the Impala. Dean's worried, half-panicked expressions, and Castiel's stoic determined ones, had sent Sam laughing, spitting pieces of fruit into the grass when he couldn't stop cackling.

_Treat my baby right, and she'll be real good to you_ , Dean had advised Castiel sagely over and over again, and Sam had smiled, recalling how Dean had said the exact same thing to him when he taught Sam how to drive at fourteen.

Castiel only drove Dean's 'baby' into a ditch on a few occasions, although the way Dean griped would have made you think Castiel had totaled the car. While the angel's instincts meshed well with the skills needed to drive – fast responses, quick maneuverings, and instinctive reactions – much of the time it was like Castiel's steady focus wavered, his mind a million miles away from his physical body. So accustomed to flying, so used to moving outside of space and time itself, hurtling through the cosmos, he probably couldn't contain himself in the all-too-slow confines of the moving car. Mentally he was always miles ahead of his actual body. He seemed too busy analyzing the car from every angle, calculating the rotation of the tires as they pressed into the rugged red earth, examining the cold and precise physics of motion itself: the rate of change of velocity over time.

They celebrated with five large pizzas, two giant Slurpies, and a _Star Trek_ movie marathon the night Castiel finally drove them down a five-mile stretch without landing them in a ditch. Dean got sloppy drunk and overly affectionate, cuddling with Cas on the couch and crooning about how his babies loved each other just fine now. Sam couldn't stop smiling at the fact that Dean got a happy boner over the fact that Cas and the Impala finally _bonded_. What's worse is that during _The Wrath of Khan_ , Sam noticed how Dean went misty-eyed when Spock got trapped behind the plexiglass and died. When Sam mentioned that Kirk and Spock's relationship reminded him a little too much of Dean and Castiel's, Dean shot him the stink eye and Castiel's eyes widened as he whispered, _Then they must love each other very much_. Dean went red, and Sam couldn't stop laughing.

It had been so long since Sam felt like this: whole and complete. Like his family was safe and healing. For the past several weeks they've become even more of a unit: learning how to fight alongside each other, how to move so that they complement one another. Falling into place beside Dean, Bobby, and Castiel feels so natural that Sam wonders how any of them ever made it without each other.

The world's ending, but for the first time in a long while, their insular Winchester world feels like it's just beginning.

Sometimes Sam dreams about dying.

In the minutes when Sam is first falling asleep and the ones when he is waking up, he tastes salt water.

He's had it with salt. Weeks of research on ocean lore and Cthulhu, and Sam's had enough. He's finished with the ocean, and the coastal vibe, and the shorelines, and everything and anything from the sea. If he never sees the ocean again and hears the roar and the rush of the tide it won't be a minute too soon, but the tragedy is that the ocean is keen on following him even into his sleep. The sheets tangled at his legs are suddenly a creeping surf rising up his thighs to drown him; he feels the brush of minnows at his chest, his ribs. He feels the grit of sand between his toes and he uses the old stand-by _It's just a dream. It's just a dream. It doesn't matter_.

In anyone's universe but his own, that might be true; but for a Winchester, dreams are never just dreams, and they _always_ matter.

Sam pulls at the sheet with a rough grab of his fingers as if this will be enough to bring reality back to him, to shake away the ocean. As much as he hates to think of the Cage, the change of scenery would be welcome. Instead, he feels cold water on his face, and when he opens his eyes, he's not awake.

He's dreaming again. And this time he's underwater, struggling, aware of the thrash of his hands and the up-tempo of his heartbeat as he stares at the mirrored underside of the waves above him. He feels the pressure of the depths as he sinks and then he lets go, goes with it. And why shouldn't he? Let this ocean put the fire of Hell out; let it extinguish the flames of Hell-memory. He will simmer like an ember, the way lava is still molten hot even under the sea, on fire with the inferno.

Sam sinks.

He goes from terror to irritation to nonchalance in a heartbeat. He thinks this is progress; that this shell-shock is transforming inside him and making him into something new, a new Sam. He opens his mouth and sips at the sea; he takes it into his lungs as though he could breathe it like a fish, and in the darkness ahead of him he sees the shape of an _actual_ fish. A very big fish. He imagines it might be a shark, or a dolphin lost in the murk. It moves and weaves and is gone again.

Sam waits to die as he descends like a falling star to the bottom of the ocean. But this is a dream, and there is no dying here. His heart steadies, and slows, and stops, in imitation of his slow drowning death in Galveston. Sam feels practiced in death, these days.

He blinks and a series of silver bubbles leave his nose and his mouth, and up ahead where fish dart and cleave through the murk of the Atlantic, he sees a dark figure forging through the sand. Long hair in coils like sea weed creep out of her mourning veil and long pleats of fabric spill out over the motion of her legs. He catches flashes of an ankle, the long curve of a calf. Dark skin in darker stockings. She kicks up sand in billows, and there is something languid in her slow approach.

Kali. Sheer power and grace in every motion, she has eyes that remind Sam of Rudyard Kipling and his story of the mongoose and the cobra, Nag. She is poised and ready to strike and her eyes freeze him in place.

When Castiel summoned her in New Jersey, Sam had experienced a moment of recognition that made him disoriented and dizzy, chasing the taste of the ocean on his tongue as though he were drowning all over again. He remembers thinking, _Kali? Kali brought me back?_ In those seconds before she vanquished the shadows and brought Castiel to his knees with a touch, she was furious and awesome, and Sam could understand why worshippers might be driven to sacrifice their lives in her name. Sam could understand that raw magic and fury that might tempt an archangel into her bed to taste the source of that spicy aroma on the wind, the cinnamon and cloves that permeate the air with her. If it didn't kill you first.

_Well, Gabriel would know_ , he thinks.

Kali's dark and shrouded figure pauses several feet before him and inclines her head as though she catches that thought through vibrations in the water. Beneath the veil, he sees full lips curve in a smile, and there is a flash like embers seated where her eyes should be, glowing hot and red above her cheeks.

_Why are you in my dream?_ he asks, steeling himself for her words.

_Because the darkness shouldn't be faced alone_ , she answers, whispered words moving with the tide, sounding haunted and lost. _I brought you forth. But here's the secret: you're going to have to do the rest. Death is easy. Life is the hard part. And it's about to get even harder for you, your brother, and that fallen angel of yours. We are not the only things in the sea._

Sam freezes, mind racing, finally understanding. _You knew about Cthulhu all this time?_

_Of course I knew. All the Elder Gods knew. We felt his awakening like a stab to the heart. And now we feel his rise. But he is older than any god that still walks this world. He makes the most powerful of us tremble with his every breath. He is the darkness itself, Sam._ She reaches out, and Sam no longer knows if this is a dream or a dream merged into reality, only that Kali reaches out in mockery of the two-fingered angel-whammy move to touch Sam on his forehead. He feels an electric shock, and then he feels his heart lurch to a start, beating steady.

When he wakes up, he is spluttering salt water from his mouth and cursing as though Kali is still there and can hear him when he says: _Try telling me something I don't know, dammit!_

But Kali is gone, if she was ever real, and Sam sinks back into the musty pillow thinking that if the Winchesters had any brains between them they should start charging others for the privilege of bringing them back to life; it beats the hell out of 401(k)s.

Castiel does not dream because he does not sleep.

Castiel is intimately familiar with the variances of war. Thousands of years spent sliding across dimensions, spreading himself across the expanse of time, he has seen everything and everyone, and in every single place, he has witnessed battles fought and won and lost in the span of one single heartbeat.

_This is no different._

Castiel paces the bedroom slowly, without making any noise, able to listen to the soft pattern of Dean's breathing as he sleeps. He stands by the bedroom window, eyeing the line of unbroken salt along the sill. They've tripled the protection on Bobby's home, but Castiel is still concerned it is not enough. The protective runes carved into the ceilings, walls, and floor are nothing against the ancient darkness they will soon have to face. Something so old even the angels have never faced it before. For the first time in a long time, Castiel cannot plot out this battle's next move. He doesn't know how best to protect his charges. He lacks certainty in everything he does.

For the first time in a long time, he has no strategy, no plan of action. No direction.

Exhaustion claws at Castiel. He sits down beside Dean on the bed, his hands falling lightly against Dean's chest, mapping its rise and fall. Castiel doesn't want to sleep. Because when he sleeps he dreams, and as hard as he tries, he cannot remember his dreams. It's unbearable, to know that there is a part of himself he cannot access freely. He feels as trapped by it as he did when the souls held him down. He already feels too alone inside his own head, cut off from the Host, locked in this human cage of skin and bones, unable to harness the full potential of his power. And now...now he feels as if something else has been taken from him.

He is afraid. He can admit that now. A millennia of war, and for the first time, he feels fear rocket through the entirety of his being. The blood flowing through the veins of his human body feels as cold as ice. The only part of him that feels warm, that feels like it belongs here, is that part touching Dean's body. The body he knit together, that he has come to know more intimately than anything else in his Father's creation.

Castiel reaches out and places his hand over his handprint, his brand on Dean's shoulder, and a soft electric current passes through them. Touching Dean always settles Castiel, casts out the fear and the uncertainty. Castiel vividly remembers the first time he saw Dean in Hell, how he couldn't believe he had made it, that he had found the Righteous Man, even as broken and torn as the man's wounded soul had been then. He remembers the moment they first _touched_ , the feel of Dean's soul moving against his grace, and how Castiel knew even then that everything was about to change. Touching Dean had felt like walking through a typhoon, like the essence of the lightning and the wind itself, like the reason for the storm.

He'd been swept up by the force of it then, as now.

Castiel has gotten used to feeling pulled in many directions; he is familiar with the soft yearning inside every cell of his near-human body that still calls out to his first home, to Heaven, to that connection he once shared with his garrison and the other angels. But even though his new world has become so much smaller, it is just as cherished as his old world once was. These days, home is a run-down house, a beloved car, an open road, and an old man and his two broken boys. Home is Dean, the calming weight of his green eyes, the strong force of his presence.

Castiel rubs his palm across his tired eyes, and he feels so human as he does it. The ceiling fan rattles overhead, but it doesn't cool the humid air. He watches as beads of moisture settle across Dean's forehead, and for a moment he thinks about waking Dean, about taking pleasure in his warmth and in the feel of their skin reconnecting, kissing Dean long into the morning hours. But he knows Dean needs his rest, even if Castiel cannot bring himself to join him.

Castiel stands and stretches his wings out, feeling almost claustrophobic in the confines of the warded house. He's naked at the moment, but when he rises to his feet, he slips on one of Dean's abandoned t-shirts and the pair of sweatpants they often share between them when needing something to slip on to sneak into the kitchen after sex. He glances out of the window again. Clouds are moving across the dark sky, and he can sense the rain even before it starts to fall. Tomorrow, while the storm rages, they will all gather in Bobby's library with the books Sam and Bobby procured from their academic sources. They will search until they find an answer.

Castiel leaves the room and heads downstairs. The house is dark and quiet, and he stretches out his senses to check on its other inhabitants, to feel out the strength of the wards and any possible threats. Assured that all is well, he moves further into the house.

He's not surprised to find Sam sitting alone at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading one of the grimoires they located in their travels. Castiel sensed that the boy had been moving around the house, restless, something weighing heavily on him.

Sam smiles up at him as he enters the kitchen. "Hey there, Cas."

"Hello, Sam," Castiel says, nodding his greeting.

Sam squints at him for a long moment, so long that his next words are wholly unsurprising. "Hey, man, you uh...no offense but you look like shit."

Castiel settles into a chair across from Sam at the table, reaching out to grab one of the books Sam hasn't gotten to yet. "No offense taken. I have...been unable to sleep."

Sam huffs, shaking his head. "I know the feeling."

Castiel smiles a little at that, and before he even has to ask, Sam is standing up and pulling down an empty mug from the cabinet, and pouring Castiel a cup of hot coffee. "How's my idiot brother doing?" Sam asks, turning to refill his own cup.

"Sleeping soundly," Castiel answers softly. "He needs it."

"He really does," Sam says, voice gone quiet and thoughtful as he settles back in his seat.

Castiel picks up the extra cup and inhales the steam for a long moment before he sips at the dark, bitter brew. His taste for coffee has grown substantially during his latest tenure with Bobby and the Winchesters. "Dean is sleeping better these days," Castiel comments after a time. "Ever since the Dreamlands, his nights have become easier for him. I think he was finally able to deal with many of the things that have been troubling his sleep for a long time."

"I'm so glad to hear that," Sam whispers, his hand running through his hair as he settles his back against his chair. "He's been carrying that stuff around for five years."

Castiel swirls the warm drink in his mouth, swallows. Says quietly, "He carries much that he should not carry."

"He always has," Sam says quietly, and Castiel sees the regret in his eyes.

After a long moment, Castiel puts down his cup and frowns. "I sense that you are troubled, Sam."

Sam sighs, scratching at his chin. "So um, yeah. There's something significant I never told you and Dean about what happened to me in Galveston."

Castiel arches a brow, having already sensed that Sam had been hiding something during that time. "I imagine Dean won't be pleased to hear that."

Sam smiles sadly, shaking his head. "At the time, I thought it was best not to say anything."

Castiel watches Sam carefully before he says, "Dean told me that it was the lying that hurt him the most last year. It wasn't that I worked with Crowley. Dean's anger was never really _about_ my working with Crowley. It was the lies, the omissions, and the manipulation that came with my betrayal. It was the fact that I didn't go to him, but chose to keep so much from him. It was because he trusted me, and I broke that trust."

"Yeah," Sam breathes out deeply, brow furrowing. "I didn't tell him because I didn't want to worry him. When I got back to the motel after...he was so damn happy. I knew something really important had happened for the both of you. I didn't want him to lose that."

Castiel nods, the familiarity of the sentiment momentarily overwhelming him. "You didn't want to bring him pain. That is something I can understand."

Sam swallows, nodding. "I get that now. It's just that Dean...he's experienced enough pain because of me." He sighs softly. "He's always worrying about me, Cas. I just wanted him to have something for himself. For once."

Castiel looks up at Sam. "What?"

"You."

Castiel frowns and asks, "Me?"

"Yeah, _you_ ," Sam laughs softly.

Castiel is silent, unable to think of a proper response to that. "Oh."

Sam sits forward in his chair and meets Castiel's eyes, a determined look on his face. "I just need you to know that I'm okay with whatever this thing is between you and my brother...I'm okay with it."

Castiel sucks in a breath, his wings shuddering and threatening to unfurl behind him. For some reason he wants to take flight. Wants to run. Instead he asks: "But why Sam? Why are you okay with it? After everything I've done to you both?"

Sam simply shrugs. "Because. You and Dean. You guys just...you _are_."

Castiel's frown deepens. "I don't understand, Sam. Dean and I... _what are we_?"

Sam smiles wide, tossing up three fingers and counting off: "Epic. Ridiculous. MFEO."

Cas continues to frown at that, uncomprehending, and Sam bursts out laughing. "Dude, you're kinda ridiculously perfect for each other," he explains. "I don't think there's anyone else on earth – or in Heaven for that matter – who can drive each other crazy and put up with each other's bullshit like the two of you can. Cas, you and my brother have been dancing around this thing for more than five years. He went to the future and saw you there by his side. At the end of everything. _You stayed by him_. You're part of each other. You always will be."

"I..." Castiel pauses because he is still unable to find the right words to say. This is not like battle, but it feels just as crucial. Castiel was lost for a time during the civil war, when his brothers began looking to him as a leader, awaiting his orders. When every word he spoke – every purpose, every belief – became a battle cry whispered in the trenches, spreading like wildfire throughout the garrisons. He became leader of a revolution in Heaven, then he became a god corrupted by power. But now. Now, he's fallen, as much a man as he is an angel. Undeserving of this sort of kindness. But the words he says now – they are not orders or commands or directives. They are simply his own. "Thank you, Sam. I don't know what else to say. _Thank you_."

Sam grins. "Dude, you do realize if I said anything like this to Dean, he'd tell me to shut up and then he'd run and hide under the Impala. So the fact that you haven't run out of the room screaming is pretty damn cool."

Castiel laughs softly and says, "Dean's not one for sentimentality."

Sam snorts. "Understatement of the year. My brother's always been more about actions than words," he says quietly, voice going deeper with memory. "Sometimes it's the simple things he does. Like when we used to get in fights when we were little kids, Dean would always give me his extra juice box when he packed my lunch the next day, his way of saying _I'm sorry_ , even when the fight was my fault. Or like...the night I announced I was leaving for Stanford. It was like Dean couldn't talk. He just stopped talking. Couldn't even look at me for most of the night. But before I headed out to catch the bus, I stopped outside my bedroom door, and there was this care package sitting right there in front of it. New t-shirts, socks, a school bag. An envelope filled with hundreds of dollars in cash."

Sam stops talking, his eyes wet as he stands back up to refill his coffee. Castiel's mind churns, nebulous thoughts competing for his attention. "I don't know what we are...Dean and I," Castiel confesses quietly. "We've never defined ourselves. It is complicated in this society to do so, I think."

Sam nods, eyes going dark. He huffs, "Yeah, it is."

"We are both trying to understand this...thing between us," Castiel explains, not even knowing what to call it properly. "Our bond."

Sam looks down at him, a knowing smile on his face. "Dean cares deeply about you, Cas. He may not be able to say it _with actual words_ , but I can see it. The way he looks at you, the way he acts around you. Truth is, Cas, to Dean, you always hung the moon."

Castiel feels his heart quicken its rhythm, and his hands shake as he grabs his coffee mug. He remembers again the first moment he touched Dean's soul in Hell, the feeling of rightness, of divine providence. He remembers the way Dean had looked at him, how for a moment his soul radiated like nothing Castiel had seen before, like it recognized Castiel, like it somehow knew what they would become to each other.

"It scares him," Castiel says, understanding rushing through his grace like an electric shock. _Dean is afraid of what they are to each other._

"Fuck yeah it does," Sam acknowledges quietly, taking his seat again and looking down into his coffee mug thoughtfully as he continues. "You gotta understand, Dean's so messed up, Cas. He thinks I don't know, can't see. But I've been watching him all my life. I know what taking care of me did to him, what he sacrificed. I know what not feeling good enough in my dad's eyes did to him. I know how he used to have to fight off greasy old men, and shoplift food, and lie and cheat and skip meals just so I'd have more to eat. My brother is a big jumble of sacrifice and devotion. He's _you_."

Castiel's eyes widen, and he feels a soft pain in his vessel's heart. _His_ heart. "Sam, I don't—"

Sam cuts him off with a wave of his hand. "Listen, Cas. He's a mess, but so are you. And you're good together, and you fit, and you make things better for each other. I couldn't be happier for my brother."

Castiel exhales deeply, not knowing that this was something he'd long needed to hear. He turns to Sam and says, "I don't deserve your forgiveness."

"Maybe you don't," Sam says quietly, shrugging. "But I didn't deserve Dean's forgiveness. Not for all the shit I pulled. Truth is, none of us should be forgiven for the shit we've done. Fortunately the people in our lives are stubborn sons-of-bitches who choose to love us anyway, scars and nightmares and apocalypses and all."

Castiel sits back in his seat, nodding. His heart feels as full as the night sky. He thinks of Dean upstairs in their bed, the pattern of his breathing, the feel of his calloused hands. "Will he ever truly forgive me for hurting you, and for hurting him?"

Sam sighs softly, his eyes sympathetic. "He has, Cas," he says, his words sounding sincere. "He's still hurting, deep down, I can see it. But if there's anything that trip to the Dreamlands showed us all, it's that you have his heart, man. You're one of the reasons my brother gets out of bed every day. And if we're going to take down Cthulhu, figure out what the hell is happening with the world right now, then we need him strong. The both of you. And you're stronger together. We all are."

Castiel releases a heavy breath and climbs to his feet. He needs to see Dean right now, to be close to him. He turns before he goes and offers Sam a nod and a smile. "Thank you again, Sam."

"Anytime," Sam says, smiling. "Dr. Phil has got nothing on me, man. Now go get some sleep. I got a lot to tell you and Dean in the morning, and I have a feeling we'll all need our strength."

Castiel couldn't agree more.

"You what?" Dean says, dropping his slice of bacon and eyeing his brother warily.

Sam frowns, gaze steadily centered on his raisin bran. "I died."

Dean swallows hard and nods just once. "I know, Sammy. I was there all three times it happened."

Sam sighs, eyes finally finding Dean's across the kitchen table. "Not the last time it happened."

Dean's heart skips a beat. "I watched you fall into Hell, Sam," he mutters, the guilt and fear and horror coming back to him all at once. "Trust me, I dreamed about it every night for a year. I remember."

"The thing is," Sam sighs, dropping his spoon and curling his hands together over the table. He looks up at Dean, and Dean wants to flinch at the guilt he sees there.

"Um," Sam tries again, voice low. "I died again. Back in Galveston."

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean says, mouth dropping open. The eggs and bacon he'd just digested are threatening to find a way back up. "What the hell are you on about?"

Sam furrows his brow and says, in a slow, careful voice, "I drowned. Saw a reaper and everything."

Dean feels nauseous, like the wind's been knocked out of him. His hands tremble, and he has to curl them into fists. "Sam, what the actual fuck?"

Sam keeps watching him, a sad smile on his face. "I didn't want to mess things up for you, so I didn't mention it."

Dean can't even deal with this right now. He pushes his plate away from him, pushes back against the chair and exhales a deep breath. Tries counting to five, but fails. "Okay. From the beginning. Spill it, Sam."

Twenty minutes later, Dean feels ready to stab something. In the eye. He's just glad that Cas and Bobby seemed to know that Sam and Dean needed some brother time this morning. They've been conspicuously absent for the past half hour.

"Look, if Kali knows something, we can use that," Sam says after a long moment of painful silence, and Dean has to give his brother credit for not running and hiding when Dean threatened to kick his ass into next Tuesday.

"Maybe," Dean says carefully, and it's like picking his way through a minefield. He sighs, rubs a hand over his face, and mutters, "But she didn't offer any insight the last two times."

Sam nods, running a hand through his shower-damp hair to push it out of his eyes. "But she saved me. And then she saved Cas. I think, despite all her objections, she _wants_ to help us."

Dean's been leaning against the counter for the past fifteen minutes, but Sam hasn't moved from his place at the table. Dean huffs and pads his way back to the kitchen table and sits down, eyeing his cold breakfast with disdain. "So you think we should summon her again?"

"We can try," Sam says, frowning a little. "But I have a feeling she'll seek us out."

Dean nods, settling back in his seat and thinking of that pint of whiskey Bobby left in the bottle last night. God, he needs a drink. "Sammy, just," Dean growls, shaking his head. "Don't do it again."

Sam's eyes widen. "What? The dying or the lying?"

"Both, you jackass," Dean grunts, glaring at his little brother for all it's worth.

Sam's lips curl into a weary half-smile, and he shakes his head. "I'll try my best, man."

There's another long moment of silence, the two of them watching the way the morning light hits the stack of old books towering at the end of the table. They have a lot of work to get through today.

Sam sighs heavily and asks, "Are you freaking out right now?"

"No," Dean breathes, because it's the only thing he can think to say. "We'll figure this out. And I won't let anything happen to you again. Or Cas, or Bobby."

Sam looks up at him, and there's such sadness in his eyes, Dean wants to look away. "And I won't let anything happen to you," Sam says, voice low and earnest.

Dean's voice catches in his throat, and he finally does look away. A beat passes before he manages a soft, "Okay, man. Okay."

**II: Revelations**

_Le Mars, Iowa_

After all the predictions about how the world's going to drown, it's kind of ironic that it hasn't rained in days. Sam sits in the shotgun seat of the Impala with the window cracked open and a folder full of old letters in his lap. Dean has the wheel, and Castiel slumps listlessly in the back. Outside, the landscape of rural South Dakota flies past, harvested fields stretching bare to the horizon. The wind blows plumes of dry dirt from the fields across the road and the fine grit peppers the Impala's fender. She's going to be a mess by the time they reach the farm.

The slipstream from the open window ruffles the letters, and Sam smoothes down the page on top. The letter Sam's currently reading was written by a member of H.P. Lovecraft's séance circle. In fact, the whole correspondence inside the folder belonged to the author's select little posse. The letters detail the circle's attempts to open a rift in reality, to catch a glimpse of another dimension and subvert "the galling limitations of time, space, and natural law."

What a load of bullshit. Sam wonders if Lovecraft and company really believed in the supernatural or if they thought the whole séance shit was a fad, if they had any idea at all what kind of forces they were toying with.

Probably not.

"Listen to this," Sam says. "'The prospect of tonight's endeavor excites a thrill hardly to be duplicated'. They were like kids in a candy store, weren't they?"

"Too bad the lollipops wanted to destroy the world," Dean comments with a side-look at Sam. "Anything useful in there?"

"Not yet. Just a lot of babble about astrophysics and, uhm, cosmicism."

Dean makes an angry sound. "We fucking know what we're up against now, shouldn't that make it easier?"

Sam snorts. "Has it ever?"

Dean's right, though, Cthulhu's a specially hard bastard to research. Almost a month has passed since their run in with Meg and Crowley, but they're no closer to figuring out the Big Bad's game plan much less how to stop it. Kali's been a no-show as well when it comes to more of her cryptic dream messages. They'd tried summoning her, but with no luck. As for the research? It's going nowhere fast. It's frustrating because when it comes to pop culture, Cthulhu's freaking everywhere. The name has found its way into computer games and pulp sci-fi, it pops up in South Park episodes and, to Dean's endless chagrin, it also inspired a Metallica song. It's all fantasy, though, pinging off a vague idea of some squid-headed god Lovecraft had hinted at in his stories. At the end of the day they're left with tons of material on Cthulhu floating and no _real_ information at all.

The closest they got to unearthing some actual facts was when they tracked Lovecraft's connections, the diaries and letters of his friends and sponsors. Tough work considering that Lovecraft's estate had been spread between dozens of museums and university archives. As chance would have it, though, Sam, Dean, Castiel, and Bobby knew one person who kept an extensive private collection of Lovecraft-related papers.

Eleanor Vizyak spent a large part of her considerably long life collecting the vestiges of the man who freed her from Purgatory. Turned out she confiscated everything that hinted at Lovecraft's extracurricular occupation with the occult (which explained why other experts have him pegged as a rationalist).

Sam, Dean, and Castiel spent the past few days at Eleanor's house searching through her library, and it had been weird, to say the least. Bobby had inherited the place and so far he'd left it untouched; he either hadn't had the time or the heart to disband the professor's estate. The manner of Eleanor's death seemed to hover over their heads the whole time they were there, and Castiel's been quiet and troubled ever since they left.

"We're going to find an angle, man," Sam tells his brother. "We always do."

Dean frowns. He hasn't shaved this morning and it shows, his pale skin setting off his brownish stubble. Lately Dean doesn't eat enough and that shows, too, his face narrower than Sam's used to.

"I just didn't think we'd be fighting the Flying Spaghetti Monster," Dean mutters.

"This is hardly a time for jokes," Castiel supplies from the backseat of the Impala.

"You think?" Dean asks. He shoots a look at Cas through the rearview mirror but he doesn't sound angry, just tired. Castiel blinks back, exhausted by the thin air inside the car or his memories of killing Vizyak or the dreams that he can't remember, Sam doesn't know. Yet, he has the suspicion that all their combined issues are getting too heavy for one car.

"We'll go over all this with Bobby," Sam insists. "Perhaps all we need is a pair of fresh eyes."

When Sam, Dean, and Castiel took off for Eleanor's place, Bobby decided it was the perfect time for them to switch base-camps. Meg had been to the salvage yard before and if she wanted to flex her muscles as the new Queen of Hell, Bobby's house would be the first place she'd visit. Plus, Castiel kept pointing out that the protections on the salvage yard might not be enough to fend off the sort of old magic Cthulhu and his followers would be wielding. Relocating to new safe houses and constantly keeping mobile seemed the smartest options.

They didn't go all that far this time, relocating to a farm some seventy miles away from the salvage yard. It's one of Bobby's safe houses and harbors a large part of Bobby's back-up library. Because the farm's still in use, it also harbors 250 dairy cows. _To make the place inconspicuous_ ,' according to Bobby. Sam assumes Greg the farmer's a friend of Bobby's. He has to be, if he lets Bobby use the premises, but in reality Greg seems to keep out of Bobby's way and doesn't talk more than two sentences when Sam comes across him in the yard.

135 hectare, two big barns, and a two-story house for living – Greg's farm is a bit bigger than their usual hideouts. Bobby never complains about leaving behind his home, but to Sam the change in place feels strange. He hadn't realized how safe he'd felt at the salvage yard until they'd been forced to leave it.

Dean drives the Impala past pastures speckled with black-and-white cows before he turns into the farm's driveway.

"Inconspicuous my ass," he mutters with another look at the cows munching happily all around the farmstead.

Sam shrugs. "It seems to work." He looks across the yard and spots a red-and-white pickup truck parked by the house. "Looks like we've got visitors."

Dean follows his gaze. "Do you know the car?"

Sam squints. "Nope. Friends of Greg's perhaps?"

"Yeah," Dean snorts. "Perhaps."

After they moved into Greg's farm, Dean converted the living room into command central. Books are stacked against the walls, maps cover the wallpaper, and there's demon proofing all over, just in case.

When Sam, Dean, and Castiel arrive, Bobby's standing at the large table with a collection of official-looking reports spread out in front of him. Two men are in the room with him, one standing by the mantelpiece, the other sitting at the table with a bottle of Jack and a full glass in front of him. They both look like they've just returned from a deer-hunting trip, one wearing a camouflage shirt and the other an olive t-shirt and a tactical vest.

Sam knows them both.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Dean mutters, eyes switching from Tim to Reggie. Sam clenches his jaw, fighting his initial reaction to walk up to Tim and clock him one. The last time he'd seen those two, Reggie had pushed a knife against a girl's throat, and Tim had tried to force-feed demon blood to Sam.

"Dean," Tim says, his mouth lifting in a sardonic little smile. "Sam. It's been a while."

The tension in the room is palpable. Even Castiel seems to feel it, his eyes narrowing as he looks from Tim to Sam.

"What are they doing here?" Sam asks. He feels Dean brush his arm against his elbow; they stand close enough that none of the others will notice, but the touch helps Sam calm down a little. He still glares at Reggie, though, remembering very well how the hunter threatened Lindsey.

"Aw, Sam," Tim drawls. "Is that how you greet the cavalry?"

"They're here to help," Bobby rumbles, still occupied with the reports.

"We've come to compare notes," Tim adds. "Relax. We're all friends here." He lifts his glass in salute and angles a pointed look at Castiel.

"That's Cas," Dean says. "He's with us."

Reggie crosses his arms in front of his chest and sneers. "I'm surprised he's still breathing."

Dean takes a quick step in his direction, but Tim intervenes. "Reg," Tim says. "Why don't you get some air?"

Reggie snorts and stalks out of the room without a backwards glance. While Bobby keeps muttering under his breath, Tim pulls an empty chair away from the table and pats its seat.

Dean's mouth twitches into a cold smile. Without consultation, he and Sam take the chairs on the far side of the table. Castiel hesitates, then sits down at the head of the table, facing Bobby.

Tim chuckles and holds out the whiskey bottle for them. After a moment's hesitation, Dean takes it and pours drinks for himself, Sam, and Castiel.

"Didn't expect to see you again," Sam says.

"Because you threatened to kill me the last time we met?" Tim asks. He's still amused on the surface, but Sam senses the bitterness beneath. Hunters rarely let go of grudges. They shelve them.

"Among other things," Sam says quietly.

"You start the apocalypse, people take it personally." Tim shrugs. "But I heard you ended it too, so. No hard feelings."

"No hard feelings," Sam echoes flatly.

"Would you cut it out?" Bobby says, finally surfacing from his study. "We got bigger fish to fry right now."

"So I hear," Tim says. "Sea gods, huh?"

"Actually it's just one god," Castiel says. "For the moment."

Tim raises his brows. "Good to hear."

"Find anything else at Ellie's place?" Bobby asks. He doesn't say it in any special way but still Sam notices Castiel flinch when Bobby uses the Professor's nickname.

"Bunch of letters," Dean says with a sigh. "But nothing we can use yet."

"Balls," Bobby curses. He raises his own glass of Jack and downs it in one go. He levels another glare at the documents on the table, then shakes his head. "Yup, that's it. I'm fresh out of ideas."

"We could hit up the Lovecraft society in Portland," Sam suggests.

"Come on," Dean says. "How's that going to be any different than the fanboys at the Necronomicon Press? It's all fiction to them anyway. Let's face it, Sam, there's not many people alive now who can tell us anything."

"There's someone," Castiel contradicts. "Meg–"

He hasn't even finished the sentence before Dean tenses up. "No," he says. "We talked about this."

Castiel takes a small, measured breath. "Meg's the only one we know for certain who has information about Cthulhu's rise."

Dean groans, shaking his head. "Not true. There's still Kali."

"Who has refused our summons so far," Castiel says testily. He exhales deeply and then says, "And we don't know that Kali knows anything at all, but we do know for certain that Meg has been involved with this for _months_."

Face flushing, Dean slams down his glass. "Meg is _not_ an option, Cas. No friggin' way."

Castiel clamps his mouth shut, but Sam knows this isn't the end of it, not by a long shot. Across the table, Tim looks back and forth between Castiel and Dean as if he's watching a tennis match.

"He's right, Cas," Bobby cuts in, trying to smooth the waves. "Tangoing with demons gets you screwed every damn time. You know that."

"Yeah, you should," Dean growls before he takes a long swallow of his whiskey. Sam side-eyes him, secretly shocked because Dean hasn't harped on Castiel like that since before Purgatory. He can sense the angel's tension even without looking at him.

"Even if we did summon Meg," Sam says carefully, "she'll never come knowing it's us."

"A demon," Tim interjects. He searches Castiel's face with a thoughtful look. "Can they do that? I can understand a god like Kali being able to refuse a summoning. But can a demon?"

"There are ways," Castiel says quietly.

"If she suspects it's a trap," Sam adds. Tim nods, purses his lips, but otherwise keeps his thoughts to himself.

Bobby sits down in his chair and pushes his cap back with a huff. "She won't need to suspect if it's you who makes the call."

"She might still come," Castiel says stubbornly. "If she thinks I'm not a threat."

From the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean clench his hand around his glass. "Dammit, Cas. Drop the Meg angle."

"We know she's looking for us," Castiel reasons, and up goes Tim's brows. "We just have to let her find what she wants. _Me_."

"What are you saying Cas?" Sam asks.

Castiel turns to Sam, but Dean speaks before the angel can get a word in. "He's talking about depowering himself, making it look like's he's a wounded bird so she thinks he's easy prey."

Sam stiffens. "Hell no," he blurts.

Jesus, he's definitely with Dean on that one. He doesn't like that idea one bit. Going from Dean's reaction, this isn't the first or even second time the two of them have talked about this. Sam can imagine the impact Castiel's insistence on risking his own hide has had on his brother. No wonder Dean's spinning like his tail is on fire.

Castiel just looks at them, a stubborn tilt to his head. "We can make it so it's safe."

"What's safe about you being bait? Again?" Dean asks, voice low and heated, before pushing back with his chair. Sam can tell he wants to get up but keeps himself in check because of Tim.

In a rare show of frustration, Castiel leans forward. "She might be the key to understanding what's happening."

"I don't give a rat's ass what she knows," Dean says. "We're not putting you in her reach again."

A muscle twitches in Dean's cheek and Sam, tuned into Dean's moods, knows the idea of dangling Castiel in front of demons scares the living hell out of him. The lashing out is just Dean's way of dealing with the panic. At this point, Sam knows better than to intercede though.

When Dean continues, he makes an effort to calm his voice. "It won't work," he says. "You know it won't. And it's not worth the risk."

Castiel sits back slowly, his face softening in a way that tells Sam he understands the reason for Dean's reaction as well. "Why don't you let this be my decision?" Castiel suggests.

"Because it's a mistake," Dean shoots back.

Sam exchanges a look with Bobby, but the old hunter just shakes his head.

"Then let me make it," Castiel says, imploring almost. "You need to let me make my own mistakes, Dean, or—"

"Seriously?" Dean snaps. "Because every time I let you or Sam make your own fucking mistakes, they're mistakes the size of Texas. Mistakes that let monsters out to play." 

Sam hears it just when Dean finishes, a harsh crack in the glass of Dean's whiskey tumbler. It's a damn thick glass, no way could Dean have broken it no matter how tightly he clutched it. Which can only mean—

Sam turns and, oh no, that isn't good. At the head of the table, Castiel sits with a frozen face and eyes so dark they look almost demonic. Sam holds his breath. A second passes, then two, and then Castiel stands up and walks out of the room without another word.

Instinct kicking in, Sam's halfway out of his chair before he decides going after Castiel would not be a good idea right now. He settles back down, but his pulse is pumping hard at the side of his throat. The silence around the table is so thick Sam could cut it with a knife.

Bobby glares at Dean, but he doesn't have to: the look of sheer contrition that's come over Dean's face is hard to miss. Nobody moves until Tim lets out a low whistle. "Sheesh," he says. "Lovers' spat?"

It's meant as a joke, even Sam has to admit that, but the timing is terrible. Dean's face, already flushed with anger, darkens further, and his gaze flickers to Tim as if he's been caught red-handed.

There's a second where Sam hopes Tim doesn't make the connection, but then the pieces click into place.

"I'll be damned," Tim says, shaking his head. That small, mocking smile is back on his face as he looks at Dean for a long moment. He whistles, then says, "You're driving stick now?"

Sam's on his feet inside an eye-blink, his fists clenched at his side.

"Shut up, Tim," Bobby growls.

"I'm just surprised." Tim shrugs, but his eyes never leave Dean. "Or maybe I'm not."

Dean meets his gaze, his body deceptively still. Tim huffs through his nose, and his smile remains unchanged. He sizes Dean up in much the same way he looked at Sam knowing he'd been hooked on demon blood.

"Why?" Sam prompts, knowing he's playing with fire but unable to stay out of it.

"You're quite the family is all," Tim says, voice crawling with derision. "You fuck demon whores, and big brother over here takes it up the ass..."

"You can shut the f—" Sam begins but Bobby cuts him short.

"That's enough, the lot of you," he growls, voice menacing. He turns to Tim, and there's nothing at all friendly in the way Bobby stares him down. "You're a special piece of work," Bobby states. "Don't make me regret my invitation."

Tim gives Bobby a long, side-eyed look before he empties his whiskey and gets up from the table. "I'll check on Reg."

"Good call," Sam says, voice cool as ice. Inside, he's fuming. It's all he can do not to follow his first instinct and beat the other hunter into a pulp. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask if Tim remembers the name of the doctor who set his broken nose the first time around, but in the end Sam bites down on the question.

Tim closes the living room door behind him, and Sam turns back to his brother, says, "Dean." But Dean has already left the table, and he's walking away now, carrying his fissured tumbler into the kitchen.

"Leave him be," Bobby tells Sam.

Sam's gaze lingers on the kitchen doorway before he slowly sits back down. "What the fuck was that?"

"Well, son, hunters ain't known to be the most tolerant types," Bobby sighs, sounding weary. "Not like there's many George Moscones working the hunter circuit. This was bound to happen sooner or later. Not that I'm excusing it, because this behavior is not _ever_ excusable. But your brother has got to be ready to face ignorant shit-for-brains like Tim without ending up bloody."

Sam shakes his head, angrier than he's been in a long time. "What are you even doing with those dicks?"

"It's the end of the world, Sam," Bobby says. "Allies are in short supply."

Later that evening, Sam walks out of the second-floor bathroom with his toothbrush in his mouth. He's just passing by Dean and Castiel's room when he hears them talking through the open door.

"... I won't, all right?" Castiel's saying, his voice still edging close to anger.

"I don't know why we're even talking about this again," Dean says.

"We're not," Castiel snaps. Sam hears him exhale a deep breath before he repeats more quietly, "We're not, okay?"

There's a rustle of fabric as if someone pulls their shirt over their head.

"You could send me down to the couch," Dean suggests. He's only half-teasing, offering Castiel a way to get even for the insult Dean hurled at him over the table.

"Why would I want to do that?" Castiel asks, all exasperation and totally missing the implication of Dean's offer.

Sam smiles and tiptoes past their door. Say what you want, but Dean and Castiel are perfect for each other.

Dean's never seen so many hunters in one place in his entire life.

He stands a distance away from the gathering, nursing a beer as he leans against the patio doorway. His eyes track Castiel across the crowded backyard; the angel is shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot as he too watches the scene playing out before them.

It's a friggin' hunter family reunion. Or something just as surreal.

When Tim and Reg showed up earlier this week, Dean figured they would be it. But apparently a shit-load of other hunters thought it made a lot of good sense to answer Bobby's emergency call for help. Hunters have been popping up from their hideaways on the hunter underground, and reporting in to Bobby for the past four days. Apparently that Colorado gathering a month ago was a catalyst for people to get more organized, to share resources, and to figure out a way to utilize the entire hunter network to get a better handle on what's happening across the globe. And while Bobby may be a crass and stubborn son of a bitch, he's well respected and well loved by a lot of hunters. When he calls, people come – even if Bobby's associating with the Winchesters, who are pretty much the black sheep of the hunting family at this point.

Good thing Greg was okay with opening up his property to a lot of shifty-looking people. Dean learned from Sam that Bobby had saved Greg's parents from something real nasty a few years back, and it probably goes far in explaining Greg's debt to Bobby and his acceptance of the hunter lifestyle.

At the moment, Bobby's working the grill, flipping over the steaks while Tamara chats him up about her latest findings from across the pond. Sam's playing hostess, bringing out drinks and snacks, a big genuine smile on his face now that Tamara's brought news that Mira's returning to the States next week. She's safe, and Dean knows Sam's going to sleep better tonight just knowing that.

Dean gulps down the last of his beer and cuts his eyes through the throng of flannel-clad hunters to find Castiel's gaze. Castiel holds the eye contact, like he's been thinking about Dean as much as Dean's been thinking about him. But ever since the cavalry started showing up, Dean's been keeping his distance. He's not eager to see a repeat of what went down with Tim. He doesn't want to have to kick the ass of every damn hunter they're supposed to play nice with right now.

But pretending you're not involved with someone you are _very much_ involved with is like constantly walking a tightrope. Dean wonders absently if this situation could in fact be any more awkward. Like right now. Castiel watches him, lips tugged downward in a frown before his face closes off completely, going very still. After a moment the angel turns away and heads back into the house. Dean feels something twist tight and hot in his belly, but he doesn't follow him.

He sucks in a breath and focuses on getting through the night. There are a dozen or so hunters gathered in the farmhouse's backyard, eating dinner and shooting the breeze. They have a stockpile of illegal weapons stacked on the kitchen table, and the dining room walls are covered in news clippings and roadmaps detailing every case that's been worked on in the last four months.

Command Central now has its soldiers.

"Hey, Winchester!"

Dean looks up and sees Izzy Vega, a lean, gaunt-cheeked hunter with a scar running from just below his left eye down to his chin, and a head full of curly blond hair.

"What's up man?" Dean says as Izzy approaches. They shake hands, and Dean accepts the fresh beer Izzy hands over.

"You look like somebody kicked your puppy," Izzy says as they toast their bottles together.

Dean snorts, but doesn't say anything. He sips at his beer and watches the crowd. "Just got a lot on my mind is all."

"Shit, son," Izzy laughs, loud and gruff. "We all do. _End of the fucking world_."

Dean laughs and shakes his head, because _goddamn_ , this shit is insane. Izzy bumps his shoulders companionably, and they chat a bit about the recent news coming in. Izzy has the sort of thick Texas accent that elongates all his words and thickens the vowels, and it reminds Dean of lazy summers in Texas, like that summer in Forth Worth, when he met Marco.

"I still can't believe the things we've been seeing out there," Izzy says, shaking his head. "Fucking tentacles, man."

Dean snorts. "Did Robb tell you about Swamp Thing he and Mikey fought out in New Orleans?"

"That damn story nearly had me pissing my pants!" Izzy roars with laughter.

Dean chuckles, trying not to choke on his beer. He first met the other hunter on a case about eight years ago, and he's frankly surprised to see him still alive and kicking. He was a reckless son of a bitch back in the day, but he appears to have calmed down with age. He's got a girlfriend in the life, he tells Dean, and before the world went to shit, they were honestly thinking about retirement and settling down to have a kid or two. Dean's kind of envious as he listens.

"That's Raylan," Izzy says, pointing to an elderly hunter walking with an ornate wooden cane. "A Deva tore up his knee in '85, and he's walked with a cane ever since. Didn't stop the old bastard from becoming one of the best damn hunters this side of the Mississippi though."

Dean smiles, impressed, as he watches the man hobble over to the front of the farmhouse and head toward the back. A cobbled path leads from the house to a wide meadow in the distance where the cows grazed, and then to a small orchard. Dean and Castiel had spent time there when they first arrived, and Castiel had said he wanted to use some of the windfall apples they salvaged from the ground to bake a pie. Thinking of Cas baking pie for him makes Dean's heart trip over itself. _Fuck_.

"Dean, whatever's bothering you, you need to deal. We can't have you distracted," Izzy says, patting Dean on the back.

"I know man," Dean says, toeing at the rocks on the ground with his worn boot and trying not to think about Cas. He sighs, sips from his beer and takes in the rest of the crowd. From the distance he spots Sonja, a hunter friend of Mira's from Seattle. She’s thirty-two and almost as tall as Sammy is, her long brown hair dyed with purple streaks. She's a kid of a hunter, and has been wielding a knife since she was old enough to crawl. She and Dean chatted about their non-existent childhood over a game of poker last night. When she turns and sees him, she throws him a cheeky grin and heads over.

Izzy punches his arm and smirks. "It's your girlfriend, man."

Dean snorts, rolling his eyes. "She's definitely not my girlfriend." He and Sonja had spent most of last night deflecting the ribbing the other hunters threw their way. Chat over a couple of beers and play one game of cards, and everyone thinks you're hooking up. But considering the mating habits of most hunters, that probably is standard first-date territory. It's just that neither he nor Sonja had any interest in going there. But it's not like either of them can explain _why_ to the hunters in the room.

"Hey Iz, hey Deano," Sonja says, smirking as she stands in front of them.

"Well, I'll just leave you two alone," Izzy says, winking at Dean, and Dean rolls his eyes again and pats Izzy on the back as he heads across the lawn, tipping his non-existent hat to Sonja as he passes her.

"I swear these guys are worse than my dad," Sonja whispers, coming to stand beside Dean and join in his crowd watching.

"Does your dad try to set you up with his hunter friends?" Dean asks, arching a brow.

"Yeah, actually he does," she says, smiling wryly. "I came out to him when I was sixteen, but to this day he hasn't stopped trying to set me up with _decent fellas_ he meets on the road."

"That's truly disturbing," Dean comments, offering her a sympathetic shoulder bump.

She laughs, throaty and world-weary. "You can say that again."

So yeah, beside their childhood (or lack thereof), he and Sonja bonded over having to hide their better halves from the rest of the hunter world. Sonja's girlfriend Kai is always introduced as 'her hunting partner.' And Cas...well, Cas was introduced last night as another of Bobby's strays.

But somehow Sonja had seen through what was glossed over and cornered Dean after things had quieted down. It had felt nice to be open about him and Cas with someone else in the life. But it had been awkward explaining to Cas why they had to sleep in separate rooms and avoid being close; why Dean let the other hunters think he and Sonja were hooking up. Castiel had said he understood, but Dean still felt like shit about the entire situation. Given they'd already been stressed out and fighting about everything under the sun, this was just the cherry on top of an already crappy month.

"Your boy still mad at you?" Sonja asks, as perceptive as she was last night.

"I think the situation is just stressful for everyone," Dean says, huffing out a tired laugh. "We've been arguing about everything lately. It's just...we got a lot to deal with right now."

"The end of the world can be stressful on a relationship," she says with a smirk, but then leans close and whispers, "When this is over, I'm taking my girl home, and we ain't leaving the bedroom for a damn week."

Dean grins wide and leans down, whispering lewdly, "Can you send me that tape?"

Sonja hits the back of his head with her palm, hard, and Dean thinks maybe not everything in the world has gone to shit.

A few things come to light in the following days. State and federal authorities are doing a damn good job hiding the full extent of what's going on across the country. The cover-up is truly epic in scope. Mira comes back on Saturday, reporting of a town in Maine that had been devastated by a mouthless, grotesque humanoid with tentacles protruding from underneath a dark robe. But official reports said a freak hailstorm had caused the town's damage and large death toll. She mentions how two more towns in South America had been plagued with _la oscuridad_ , a thick black fog that had settled low over several seaside villages, its smoky tendrils curling down into the streets before swamping the entire town in darkness. Of course, then things began to crawl out of the fog and _eat_ people, but that's not getting mentioned anywhere in the official reports. News channels are blaming 'masked thugs' for the attacks, and the fog itself is explained as a weird side effect of global warming. No matter what town, there's now a scientific explanation for everything. Swine flu. Terrorists. Cults. Freak accidents blamed on the changing migratory patterns of birds.

"It's ridiculous," Sam huffs, curling his arm around Mira and pulling her further into his lap as he places down the newspaper.

Dean shoots him a smile at the blatant PDA, before stuffing a donut into his mouth. Mumbling around a mouthful of powdered dough, he says, "How can they even hide most of this?"

Sam shoots him a dirty look. "Swallow, dude, please."

Dean swallows and then gulps down half a glass of milk, licking his lips with a happy smile. "Satisfied, Sammy?"

Mira's laughing, and Sam sighs and looks at her, muttering. "Forgive him. My brother has no social skills."

"I got other skills though," Dean says, waggling his eyebrows at her, to which Sam rolls his eyes, brow knitting together as he forms one of his classic bitchfaces.

"You are disgusting and I hate you," Sam mutters, right on cue.

"Fair enough," Dean says around a lascivious smirk, just as Castiel walks onto the back porch shirtless and only in a pair of Dean's sweatpants.

Dean's smile falls, and he clears his throat. The sweats hang low enough on Castiel's waist to show off the smooth curve of his hipbones, the ones Dean loves to map with his tongue and hands almost every night. Castiel's bedhair is wild and sticking up in a million places, and Dean feels his mouth drop open, before he closes it and concentrates on his box of donuts. There are still a few hunters hanging around the farmhouse, and Dean's trying hard not to do anything stupid like throw Castiel to the ground and have his way with him.

"It seems the public is susceptible to believing many untrue things," Castiel is saying as he takes a seat at the table next to Sam and Mira's love nest. He's glancing at the headline on the morning paper: 'SWINE FLUE EPIDEMIC SWEEPS THE SOUTH.'

"Hey, Fox News is blaming Obama for the freaky weather patterns too," Mira says with a chuckle, reaching over Sam for his coffee and sipping from it slowly.

"People are crazy," Dean says, eyeing the jelly filling oozing out of his donut. When he looks up, he sees Castiel watching him closely.

Dean clears his throat again. He thinks he should say something to Cas, but the angel has been giving him these weird, loaded silences lately, and Dean doesn't really know how to address them. Castiel's eyes go hard and focused the longer they play the staring game, so Dean finally looks away. Sighs.

"Hey, so," Sam says into the uncomfortable silence that follows. "Dean why don't you go show Cas the setup we put together in the barn. Maybe he'll see a pattern?"

Dean turns to his brother, frowning. "Right now?"

"Yeah _right now_ ," Sam says slowly, eyes doing that thing they do when he's trying to get something across. "You know, while most people are sleeping and you've got time on your hands."

"Oh, yeah," Dean says, flushing and turning to Castiel. "Hey, Cas, can I show you that thing Sam and I put together?"

Castiel frowns, but he nods, getting up from the table and following behind Dean. The morning air is warm and heavy, and the old white farmhouse stands bright in the early sunlight. Dean takes them down a dirt path out past the meadow to the old barn, and for most of the walk the silence between them stretches and pulls tight, cackling with energy and unvoiced thoughts. The world around them is noisy though, with the birds singing as the morning sky flashes in hues of blue and pink.

Barn swallows swoop above them as they approach the huge structure of the feed barn, and Dean pauses before the closed door, turning to find Castiel watching him closely.

"There is something inside you wanted to show me?" Castiel asks, voice curious and lilting in the quiet of the morning.

"Uh, yeah," Dean says, reaching out to touch Castiel's wrist before walking with him into the barn. It's cool and shaded inside, and it smells of hay and oats.

"Dean?" Castiel frowns, looking around, and Dean knows he's wondering why he's being shown an empty barn.

"I just..." Dean says, then shakes his head, forcing his next words out in a huff. "I miss you, okay."

Castiel stares forward, unblinking. "But I haven't gone anywhere," he says somberly.

Dean sighs, bites at his lip before reaching out and touching Castiel's arm. "Fuck, Cas, I've missed you," he murmurs again before closing the distance.

When Dean kisses Castiel, it feels like the storm breaking over a drenched desert. Castiel's tongue is warm and tastes like earth and coffee. Dean goes slow, pushing Castiel's mouth open gently, as the angel tips his head up and welcomes Dean home.

Castiel's hands dig into Dean's flannel shirt, gripping tight before he breaks from Dean's mouth just long enough to whisper, "I've missed you too, Dean," before pushing Dean back into the wall of the barn, thumping hard enough to shake the rafters.

They press together, Dean's thighs opening to allow Castiel's legs room to push up against his crotch, the hard planes of their chests sliding together as their cocks meet through fabric. Dean whimpers at the friction; he's had too many days without this, and he's already hard enough to explode. Castiel pulls Dean into a deeper kiss, needy and hungry, and Dean doesn't know how long it lasts, all he knows is that it's perfect.

"So, I was talking with Sammy earlier, and he thinks we should hit the road again," Dean says after a time, leaning back against the wall as his breathing evens out.

"But what about working with the other hunters?" Castiel asks.

"Bobby can deal with 'em," Dean grunts. "I'm getting cabin fever being cooped up around them for too long, not able to touch you..." Dean pauses, shaking his head. "Pretending we're not – you know."

"I know," Castiel says quietly, resting his hand against Dean's shoulder. Dean meets Castiel's eyes as he feels the angel's touch resonate through him.

Dean reaches out and tangles their fingers together. "We can leave tonight," he whispers, because goddammit, he's missed this.

Castiel arches a brow, a small smile playing at his lips. "So when Bobby asks, should I inform him that we're leaving so that we can have sex?" he asks.

"I think you should, because I really want to see the look he gives you," Dean says with a big smile, feeling reckless.

Castiel huffs and places his hand on Dean's shoulder again as their eyes meet. "I don't wish to risk it," he says, voice earnest.

Dean laughs, shaking his head. "Anyways, Mira's heading back to the UK for a week, and I figure me, you, and Sam can check out some of these leads we've been getting," he says, shrugging. "It's not _only_ about sex."

"With you, it's almost always about sex," Castiel says, reaching out and pulling Dean close again. His mouth closes over Dean's, teeth catching at Dean' lower lip, and Dean smiles into the kiss, feeling light for the first time in days.

_Tanton, New Jersey_

They've been back on the road for five days when Dean awakens to the sound of crying.

He's intimate with the sound of tears. It comes with the job, and what he knows of tears is that they're not blood, though they sound the same when they hit the floor. Blood he can deal with. Tears have become complex in a short span of time, and he's unsure if he can ever spill them on his own again. He's seen the same look in his brother's eyes – that dry-eyed grit that communicates a pain beyond tears.

He flopped down onto the bed in his jeans, and he tracked in dirt on the bottom of his shoes. Castiel said nothing about it before he stripped off his shirt as well, baring flat lines of himself to the dim motel light as Dean watched. Dark hollows beneath his eyes bore testimony to their long nights packed into the Impala over the past week, and the exhaustion of sleep that Castiel hasn't been getting enough of. When Castiel climbed beneath the covers they tracked in lines of sand on the sheets and neither of them cared. Dean fell asleep with the hot press of Castiel's hungry mouth at his throat, and he had time enough to wonder how far they could take that, and then he was gone into unconsciousness like the grave.

Things have been better since hitting the road. After their clashes at Greg's farm, they patched things up like they usually did. Dean growled, _are we past this?_ , Castiel snapped, _we're past this_ , and that was that. It would be nice if it were actually true.

Dean is awake now and sits upright, frowning, as the quiet sound of crying recedes into the distance. Castiel pushes his head further beneath the pillow, and Dean feels the absence of his friend's warmth along his torso.

He pushes the sheets away and fixes on the sound, muffled between layers of sheetrock and paint and bad motel wall art. In another second he's on his feet and at the wall where the connecting door links into the next motel bedroom. He lays a palm flat on the wall and tracks the sound to the connecting door where he leans in and settles the hot shell of his ear against the cold surface.

The crying comes from within.

The usual soundtrack of motel rooms is anonymous sex, and Dean has heard his fair share; been the cause of it enough times to be banned from a certain motel in Las Vegas. But this is new and unsettling. He raises his hand to knock and silence the woman on the other side of the wall, but his fist hesitates in mid-air as the sound of the crying stops. Abruptly, Dean is overcome with the feeling, insidious and creeping through him like a mist, that she stopped crying because she's on the other side and listening to him.

The hairs prickle on the back of his neck. He wishes for the Colt or the Taurus or the Beretta. Something tangible he can hold in his hand and that can blow holes through walls. He left them in the duffle by the bed, but when he turns to retrieve them a long, thin shadow is in his way.

Before he can let out a yelp of astonishment, Castiel is there with his hand pressed over Dean's mouth, and Dean feels a whip crack of desire flash through him with white heat, Castiel's body leans and pushes against him and Dean thinks, _This is something I will never get tired of._

Castiel's train of thought is on a different track completely as he hisses: _Listen._

Dean listens.

The motel doors open out into the parking lot, and he hears the sound of the door opening and closing across from them.

Dean mouths the words: _Sam?_

Castiel frowns, and Dean has a moment to appreciate that pink blossom of his lips in their rough-edged, stubble-framed glory before the angel reaches his maximum threshold of annoyance. Obviously tired of these human conventions of speech and lip-reading, with a rough motion he pushes Dean against the wall and slaps his hand over his ancient burn mark, fingers meshed against scar tissue. It sends an electrical spark through Dean like sticking his fingers into a wall socket and just as he goes rigid with the unexpected feeling, Castiel grips Dean's hand and thrusts it against his own mark so that Dean's fingers fit perfectly against the scar.

_Reach out and touch someone, huh, Cas?_

And suddenly, Castiel's voice is there in his head, and it almost makes Dean bark out a laugh because the sly sonofabitch always has been cagey about whether he can mind-read, but now here's the proof. They can hear each other's thoughts.

_This is quicker. Sam called._

_I didn't hear the phone ring._

_He prayed…he prayed to tell me that someone, or something, followed us here._

Dean struggles at that, all rage and fists and _they better not touch Sammy!_ , and Castiel is there with his inhuman strength, flattening Dean further against the door and restraining him with muscle and sinew, and the lean hardness of him pressed full-length against Dean. It is almost enough to distract Dean completely from his fear and his panic, enough to dismantle his rational thought and awaken the blood below the waist where his stiffening cock decides to join the dialogue.

Dean swallows, and Castiel looks down with an expression that could be described as exasperated.

_Is sex all that's on your mind?_

_Didn't we discuss this already?_

Castiel steps back and releases Dean with a lift of his hand. Dean lets his fall away, but he does it slow, a slide of his fingers over Castiel's skin and then grazing his nipple, and he is rewarded with a shiver from the angel. Castiel picks up Dean's flannel from the floor where he dropped it last night and shoves it into Dean's hands without a word, shrugging on a t-shirt himself and pulling out two firearms from the duffle, one for each of them. When Dean manages the trick of buttoning himself into the shirt without doing it wrong Castiel hands him the 1911 butt-first, and he takes it, loading the magazine in with a flat tap of his hand.

"Why didn't you tell me you could read minds?" Dean asks. "That I could hear you too?"

"I can only read yours and you can only hear me when I project," the angel counters softly, before qualifying the admission with, "But I would never do it without your permission." At Dean's raised eyebrow, Castiel smirks a little. "This was an emergency."

The thought Castiel might read his mind while they're fooling around in bed momentarily distracts Dean with a feeling that's part-disquiet and part-thrill, but he tamps it down sufficiently to get his head back in the game.

"Ready?" Dean whispers.

Castiel nods. Dean supposes he should be used to seeing him this way now, human muscle tensing beneath the layer of his shirt, and the calm and self-assured manner with which he holds the firearm. Dean does not know how to quantify the sensation he experiences as they fall into step with each other, in tandem, in sync. But he loves it fiercely and imagines that somewhere in these layers of walls, his brother too, is working in step with him.

Dean grins. He may be terrified, but the ones he loves makes him feel invincible.

Together they approach the interconnecting door and take aim at the knob.

Dean shoots. Metal blows out the back in broken, smoking bits followed by splintered wood as the frame shatters and the door creaks out. Castiel leans forward, and Dean experiences a sensation of protectiveness, and thinks later he will insist that he takes point.

He lifts the gun, and they surge forward, Castiel wading into the motel room, and Dean behind him. Their flash and fury is for nothing. Whoever it was is gone, as though they smelled their presence on the wind. The bad motel art is hanging crooked from a wire, and the sheets are in disarray. There is the faint scent of lead from the firearm discharge, but beneath that is a sense of power, and Dean and Castiel trade a single stare before they turn toward the door of the abandoned room.

It swings open into the night. Beyond, Dean sees the glow of dim orange street lamps and smells the salty bitterness of the fouled New Jersey air. Taillights and headlights trade spaces on the main drag beyond that takes tourists straight into the corrupt hotspot of gambling on the East Coast: Atlantic City.

But here on the outskirts, everything is dilapidated and empty and deserted save for the local hardware stores and the WaWa convenience stops, along with the quaint Victorian saltboxes and the occasional marinas and the one-room churches.

"There," Castiel nods, his gun trained on the floor as he motions.

There is a black shape moving in the darkness across the street and behind it follows Sam's tall and striding figure. Dean takes a moment to admire his brother from afar, how he stands straight in his pursuit, thinks, _Jesus, he's starting to remind me a little of Clint Eastwood_.

Dean runs first, all out across the parking lot and into the roadside weeds along the shoulder. He waits for traffic to pass in the night darkness, and the red flare of taillights reminds him of Hell for an instant before he clamps down on the thought and refuses to follow it into the past. What good would that do his brother now?

Castiel is behind him, and they cross the road together at a measured pace while Dean's palms gather sweat, and he keeps an eye on the moving figures beyond them. When they are safely across, he turns, snatches at Castiel's sleeve and pulls him into the shadow of a looming statue. Dean thinks it's Saint Francis of Assisi but he'll be damned if he knows his saints, and Castiel stumbles against him with an _oomph_.

They wait there, in the darkness. Together they make their breathing quiet, and Castiel leans into Dean, shoving away the fabric of his sleeve impatiently to gain access to the scar beneath. His body is pulsing heat beneath his clothes and it makes it difficult for Dean to concentrate.

Castiel locks his fingers in place. _Listen!_

_Sammy_ , thinks Dean, and Castiel nods once, curt and thin-lipped.

Dean tilts his head. The stone feels cool where he leans against it, at his shoulders and the back of his neck, and he hears their voices, familiar voices, on the ocean wind. He smells the sweet tang of cinnamon and cloves.

_Fucking Kali_ , Dean thinks when recognition hits, and he wonders briefly if she's here because they summoned her, answering their call on her own terms. He's ready to run forward and make his presence known, but Castiel holds him back.

_Wait_ , Castiel implores, fingers digging into Dean's arms. _We should observe her, see what she wants from him_.

Dean holds back, turning his gaze toward his little brother and the goddess who raised him from the sea.

"Will you tell me what you know?" Sam is saying, face clenched tight. "We know you must know something."

"I brought you forth from the bottom of the sea, Sam. Isn't that enough?"

"Stop playing mind games. Just tell me what you want!"

Kali laughs, strong and powerful, its vibrations carrying on the wind. "What would you do if I dug into your skull and brought back Hell too? All those memories you work so hard to bury?"

There's a troubled exhalation of breath like a gasp as Sam releases it. Dean closes his eyes, and he feels Castiel's other hand rise and press to his cheek, offering a comfort through the flesh.

_Your brother is strong. He can bear this._

Dean knocks a hand against the belt buckle of Castiel's jeans. He takes a moment to appreciate the warmth of his friend's skin and the way it rises from his hips and belly and into his rib cage before his palm finds the scar on Castiel's chest and slots in.

_No one should bear the threat of Hell, Cas. It's already like we all carry it with us wherever we go._

Castiel stares at him in the darkness before Dean feels the resounding response as though the angel pushes the thought into him with his grace alone.

_Hell cannot touch us anymore. Even if it could, we will not be alone there. We'll raise it up together. And they'll have to find a new name for the place we make of it, for it will be Hell no longer_.

Dean starts to respond with a cool appreciation of Castiel's smiting intensity, but Sam's voice intercedes and they can only remain in the shadow of Saint Francis with their hands and their arms interlocked, barely breathing, waiting.

Sam's voice is low and wary as he says, "Why would you do that to me?"

"Because Hell is the least of your worries, Sam."

"Help me, then. Please."

"Oh, Sam," Kali whispers.

Dean edges against the stone, softening his step against the rotted leaves and sugar sand underfoot. He peeks over the stone and feels it cut cold against his cheek. Castiel waits beside him with his hand still trailing on Dean's shoulder, the firearm dangling along his thigh in the other.

Dean looks around them, sees the long drag of the main road and the skeletal trees that surround them and rise up with their empty limbs. Beyond that is a plain church painted white, its door red as blood. Behind it are the faint shapes of crosses and a statuary in the background. Roses are planted at the border, but they're empty of leaves and roses both, only thorns rattling against the chain-link fencing.

Before the church Sam is facing Kali, and Dean studies her in the darkness. She wears a black dress, and her face is obscured by the thick black veil that hangs from her simple hat. She's built of well-muscled curves, and before his eyes can linger over the peach-shape of her ass he feels the pressure of a boot heel pressing on his own.

_Just lookin', Jeez, Cas._

Kali moves toward Sam, and Dean stiffens, tightening his grip on the gun and moving his finger from the barrel to the trigger. Sam raises his gun in front of him too, but Kali ignores it in favor of Sam's free hand, gently plucking it from the air as though it were as light and small as a butterfly. She opens Sam's palm and puts her own in it, and this must frighten Sam more than anything.

Dean knows because Sam brings up the gun to her head. The muzzle traces the veil from her hat, and she does not move or cry out or defend herself.

"If I help you," she says, ignoring the firearm trained on her, "what will you do for me? Will you mourn me as I die by the Great Cthulhu's hand? You Winchesters have a gift for coming back to life but when the rest of us die, we stay dead, and we don't have the luxury of hope. Life ends. We are forgotten."

Dean wonders if she's talking about Gabriel again, and he remembers her attempts to raise the archangel in New Jersey the last time they encountered her. He can see the gun tremble in Sam's grasp and a muscle in his jaw flexes. Dean waits, at the ready with Castiel beside him.

"Fuck you. Whatever it is you want, there's no deal," Sam says, and his voice is hard as stone.

"I'm not here for a deal, Sam," Kali says softly. "The few of us that are left have been meeting, you know. To talk about what it would take to stop the Great Old One. He is more powerful than anything we've ever faced. Maybe more powerful than Lucifer, Sam. That's why we've been talking about you, too. About you and your brother. About the angel who fell into Purgatory and the Righteous Man who brought him back. That's powerful magic in any world. You and your brother and that angel of his defy all odds. Break all the rules."

Sam is quiet for a long moment, and Dean wonders if he's absorbing all of that. "Then what do you want?" Sam asks, voice sounding tired and worn-through.

"We're wondering what this will cost all of us," Kali says, her voice a whisper, a roll of thunder across the sky. "The other gods, those of us still fighting for life in a world that is forgetting us, asked me to seek you out again, for me to help you where I can. You can find me at the church here. There is one more thing I can do to help you. But after this, I've paid my debt to you. I can't follow you and your brother forever helping you. And I am so very tired of this world. I think I'm going to go my own way, from here on. I learned that from someone I loved once, long ago."

Dean blinks, taking it all in. He watches as Kali leans up on her tiptoes, and Sam's gun grazes her temple. She pulls his forehead down toward her, and Sam wears an expression of confused surprise as she plants a kiss against his lips. She releases him after a few moments, and he drops the gun with a futile gesture of defeat. "That wasn't a deal," he insists, his voice harsh. "That wasn't any kind of _deal_.

Kali smiles. "No, it wasn't."

Dean's not sure if he's buying what she's selling, though. If this were a ghoul or a ghost or a skin walker, or any of the usual suspects, the answer would be simple and easy, but he has no answer for what to do when someone gives something without expecting anything in return. There's no precedent for heartfelt caring from someone this powerful with nothing to gain. So he stares as the woman – this goddess – turns and taps her way to the church steps. The doors creak open in her path as if on command, and she ascends the steps. Dean's still trying to figure out how to react to the scene when he hears the crunch of dead leaves beside him.

It's Castiel. The angel releases Dean's shoulder and whirls out from behind the headstone, and Dean has time enough to catch the wild look in his electric eyes. They reflect arcs of light from the orange street lamps, and he looks desperate as he takes off toward the church.

Dean doesn't have time to stop him. Sam's head lifts as he notices Castiel emerging from the shelter of the statuary, and he moves aside on instinct as Castiel runs past him. Dean breathes out, caught between annoyance and fear. "Cas!" he barks, but Castiel is already moving beyond his voice. "Goddammit, Cas!"

Kali makes a half turn on her heels and adjusts the collar of her shirt as Castiel approaches. She winks at him, and then she's gone, vanished into the interior of the church.

Castiel is still faster.

Dean knows the angel has been learning all the ins and outs of human hardships, the small things – how stubbing your toe in the middle of a night trip to find the bathroom hurts like a motherfucker, and paper cuts are a close second; that if you don't aim right, you'll end up pissing all over your shoes, and that there's this one patch of skin you always miss when you shave.

But Castiel's still fast, _too_ fast, when he shoves Dean out of his way, drops the firearm like it's only slowing him down, and rushes into the church with a snarl. The doors blast open and then slam behind him in time for Dean to rise up and make a half-hearted attempt to go after him. He can still hear the echo of Castiel's steps on the church floor before they were shuttered away from him.

"Motherfucker," Dean whispers, and then he looks at Sam. Sam shrugs with his eyes wide and a gesture of his hands.

"He's _your_ boyfriend."

This takes the wind out of Dean's sails, and he's too flabbergasted to answer. He stares up at the imposing red door, forlorn and cold in the night. After a moment, he stoops to pick up the firearm Castiel abandoned and rubs a hand across his forehead as though he senses the beginning of a headache there.

Sam tries the door, but it's locked tight.

"I take it she only plans on talking to Cas then," Dean grunts outs, not at all liking the idea of Cas trapped inside alone with her.

"Cas will get the information we need," Sam tells him, assured, eyeing the door for a moment before turning back to Dean.

"I still don't like it," Dean says, shaking his head.

"Well neither do I," Sam huffs, settling down at the foot of the church steps. "But we might as well chill here for a moment and let Cas handle this."

Dean groans, but follows Sam's example and sits down on the steps, guns placed on the ground. "Do you think she'll really help?"

"She and the rest of the gods wanted Lucifer gone," Sam says, shrugging. "It's not a big leap to think they'd be just as upset by something this powerful being unleashed."

Dean swallows, nodding. That makes sense. "Remember when it all just used to be simple salt-n-burns?" he asks on a deep sigh.

Sam rolls his tongue from one cheek to the other before he speaks. "I don't think anything in our life has ever been that simple," he admits. "I wish it were though."

"Amen to that," Dean says, turning his head back to the church, ready in case Castiel needs him.

Castiel smells frankincense and myrrh when he skids to a halt in the interior of the church, and beneath it is the lingering aroma of cinnamon, cardamom, garam masala. Stained glass windows line the walls either side of him, and he casts his eyes swiftly right and left to see that he's in the middle of the aisle, hard wooden pews bordering him.

He glances to the side and sees a single candle lit. The flame is ready and thin in the red glass, and Castiel lifts a hand. When he does, the flame waxes strong, and he senses with his waning grace the prayer left there, catches an image the woman left behind when she lit the candle:

_Gabriel._

Castiel sighs, and continues down the aisle. Further up before the altar and the wooden statue of Christ on the cross that dominates the center, he sees the black-cloaked figure seated there with her head bowed, and he takes his time as he walks to her. He senses the thin thread of Dean's worry through the scar print on his chest, but he pushes it into the background. For now, he's troubled by what he has seen here tonight and more than that, what he has heard; and in his own way, he's curious to know more about the goddess that mourns his troublesome brother so.

He reaches the end and stands beside her. She is a layer of black garments gathered over hard and unforgiving wood. She clasps her hands together as if in prayer, and Castiel frowns as he watches her.

"I've been wanting us to speak again," she whispers.

"Kali," he says only. And then he slides in beside her and clasps his hands in his lap and studies the figure of Christ, tortured and silent above them.

"You light a candle for Gabriel. You still love him," Castiel observes quietly.

"You doubted it? Even after I tried to rip a whole into the world to bring him through it?" she says, her voice husky and thick with wonder.

"But you did try to kill him once too," Castiel points out. "I find it hard to believe a woman who tried to kill a man might actually love him."

"Of course I loved him," the goddess says, voice heavy with regret. "If I did not love him, I wouldn't have cared enough about him to want to kill him. And he had no right – Lucifer had no right to do it! He was mine. Gabriel was mine." Her hands fist against her knees, but Castiel says nothing at first.

Finally, he smiles, understanding dawning, and quirks a single eyebrow. It is a human gesture he learned from Dean, a strange locomotion of fine muscles that is so effortless for him, but so difficult for Castiel. "I think I might know that kind of love," he says quietly.

"I know you do, Castiel," Kali says, and she sighs beneath the veil. The fabric moves in the wind of her breath. She's quiet for a long moment before she says, "You love him too much."

Castiel examines her face, the fall of black lace over her cheek. Up close, he can see the ridge of her jaw where the skin is butter-smooth and dark as cocoa. "How do you mean?"

"Your love for Dean nearly destroyed the world, turned you into something that thought to call itself a god," she says, voice bitter. "You are broken, Castiel, because creatures like you and I were not built to love as humans do. Gods and angels and those with the kind of power we wield, what can we know of that kind of love but destruction and pain?"

Castiel does not have an answer to that, and all he can do is watch the dark veil covering her face, feel the weight of her broken heart as if it were his own.

"Take a good look, Castiel, at what happens to those who fall in love with angels. Misery will forever be their fate. Your Father flooded the world for it. Gabriel was always talking about it, even though at the time I wondered at his obsession with the Christian god. Now I understand, of course. For when angels love, misery is all that awaits them," she says, voice breaking on the last word before she continues softly, "Do you want that, for the one you love? Take a good look at me, Castiel. The heart has gone from me. The laughter. The light. The dance. He would dance with me, do you know that? All the night long…and I can never have him back. Does your loved one know what he must suffer through to keep your love?"

"I will not see Dean suffer," Castiel says, and he means it. He will do anything to keep Dean safe from harm.

"But sometimes the universe has different plans for us," she says, and she sounds so defeated. "You are an angel, Castiel, and Dean is but a human."

Castiel sucks in a sharp breath because the words strike a chord in him, bring back a memory of a dark night, of the ache that crowded his grace as he said, _You're just a man. I'm an angel_.

Castiel touches Kali's fisted hands, and when she eventually relaxes her fingers, he takes both of her hands between his own. "Merciful, dark night, worshipful _Kālarātri_ ," he whispers. "Tell me what you know of the Great Old Ones. Help us now in our time of need."

Kali squeezes his hand. Her voice is dark and solemn as she whispers, "They came eons before man walked the earth, before many of my fellow Elder Gods crossed into this world. The Old Ones ruled the darkest corners of this world, and we fought them as best we could because that which we loved, they wanted to destroy."

Castiel nods, remembering the stories his brothers told him of the ancient gods that slumbered in the center of the world. "Why has the great Cthulhu, the high priestess of the Great Old Ones, arisen now?"

Kali squeezes his hand tighter, and sighs softly. "You don't know why, Castiel?"

Castiel frowns. "No, we don't, none of our research is—"

"Maybe it's as the humans say...all roads lead to the same destination," Kali interrupts, eyes a dark light even through her veil as she turns to him, watching him closely. "He has awakened, and he will take this world. As the prophecy foretold, _In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming…yet He shall rise and His kingdom shall cover the Earth._ "

Castiel is caught in the dark pull of her eyes, and for a moment he remembers the rush of souls through him, so much like the pitch-blackness of the depths of the sea. He shakes his head to fall away from those memories. He doesn't want to dwell in those places again.

"You still don't understand," Kali says, and she lets go of his hand and stands, her dress trailing darkly after her. She approaches the altar in front of the church and adds softly, "But you will."

Castiel knows there isn't time for any more of her riddles, so he asks, pleading, "How can we destroy him?"

"Some say that it was Hastur who found a way," Kali says, voice flowing through the church. "Before he too was imprisoned."

Castiel nods, thinking back to Crowley and the dagger, the missing piece that connected the puzzle for Dean. "Hastur and Cthulhu were said to be rivals."

"Yes," Kali says. "Before the Old Ones were all locked away, the two brothers caused terrible damage in their wars with each other. The other Elder Gods tell stories of how Hastur created three weapons that he believed would harm the Beast, weaken him enough to defeat him. It is said that Hastur's cult kept these hidden in case Cthulhu would rise again. Find those weapons, and you may have a chance at stopping him."

"How will we know these weapons?" Castiel asks.

"They will be marked by both Hastur's sign and the Elder sign," she says, taking Castiel's hand and tracing the symbols into his palm. "But there is no guarantee they will work. It is all myth and legend, Castiel."

"Some would say the same thing about us," he whispers.

Kali is quiet for a long moment after that, and Castiel knows that she has shared all that she came to tell him. "Where will you go, now?" he asks her, standing and joining her in front of the altar.

Kali smiles at him, but it is a sad and lonely smile. "I think maybe I am done with this goddess life. So many are gone after what happened last year, and I find myself without a purpose. And if the Old Ones return, there is no future left for those of us who remain."

Castiel nods, understanding how it is to be one of the last of your kind left in the world. "May I ask you one more thing?"

Kali looks at him, raising her hand and bringing her palm to his cheek. "What is it, my dear fallen one?"

"Did Gabriel say that?" Castiel says quietly. "That those who love angels are doomed to suffer?"

Kali looks away For a moment, and Castiel can make out only the bright flash of her eyes as she turns. "He spoke of it often," she tells him. "That there was more than one fate and in all of them, angels bring pain to the ones they love. I think he was trying to warn me. You know, Castiel, I have tried again and again to make my way back to his time, to bring him back from the past. To resurrect him. But he is in the Lake of Fire, where the traitor angels go, and there is no calling him back. He joked all the time. But his jokes were never casual. Never without _meaning_. And it was the one thing he said that he never coupled with a laugh or a trick. The most serious thing he ever said…angels bring suffering to the ones that love them."

"We're not all like Gabriel," Castiel points out.

"No," Kali admits, and then there is a click of her tongue as she considers that. "But he was only ever talking about you when he said that."

**III. A Gathering Storm**  


_Lawrence, Kansas_

June's almost over, and the summer sun burns hot as fire, raising the average temperature in Kansas to ninety degrees. Around two o'clock in the afternoon, when every sensible person's holed up inside with a cold beer, Dean stands on top of a ladder and mends the roof of Missouri's greenhouse. In all honesty Dean would've preferred the beer, but here he is, sweating through his t-shirt and cooking like a lobster inside his work gloves.

Sam bustles around on the ground, fitting new glass panes into window frames. They plunked a transistor radio into the grass, and the music alternates between country and a sort of reggae-oldie-Alison-Krauss-fusion. Right then, the station's program switches to Bob Marley's _Three Little Birds_.

"Seriously?" Dean calls down the ladder.

Sam laughs. "Just go with it."

"'Don't worry about a thing'," Dean mutters. "If only." He shifts the baseball cap on his head and pries the shards of a broken glass panel out of their casing.

Sam continues to sing, and Dean just laughs. It's a welcome moment of lightness in the dark of a hunt for information that is leading them down blind alleys and dead ends, a long list of information that isn't really conclusive and tantalizing clues that come to nothing. It's nothing if not frustrating, and the tension is getting to them all.

They've been with Missouri for almost a week now. Castiel finally agreed to Dean's suggestion that they pay a visit to the psychic who'd witnessed his return from Purgatory. Although they had all been nervous about involving her, they figured that Missouri right now would be their best bet for tapping into what's happening via psychic information gathering, and for getting to the bottom of Castiel's weird dreams. Kali's lead has been helpful, and they've got feelers out all over the world looking for artifacts that match, but the going's been slow. Dean thinks approaching Missouri makes a hell of a lot more sense right now than approaching Meg for more leads on where to find Cthulhu-killing weapons. But it's still a point of contention between him and Castiel.

Dean tosses the greenhouse shards onto the lawn, taking care to drop them down a safe distance from Sam. Try as he might, he can't shake the unease that has quivered under his skin since Arkansas. Long after they left Meg in the dust and sent Adam to Heaven, Dean's still feeling short-tempered and restless. He tells himself it's anxiety in the face of a new enemy – _the biggest bad you've ever seen_ – so of course he's tense. But the impression that he needs to worry about something else won't leave him.

Nor can he explain why he has trouble looking into Castiel's eyes these days.

For a moment Dean's so preoccupied, he doesn't even notice that Sam's singing along with the radio. Frowning, Dean looks down. Sam's crouching in the shadow of the greenhouse, blue bandana tying back his Johnny Depp hairdo, and his voice rises up in that scratchy, off-key way he has.

" _Don't worry 'bout a thing, 'cause every little thing's gonna be all right._ "

"Dude!" Dean yells. "Don't make me come down there!"

By the time Dean walks back into the house, the nape of his neck feels tight and itchy, and his skin's probably red enough it glows in the dark. Dean smiles ruefully. Serves him right for getting the bargain sunscreen.

As he walks into the air-conditioned shadow of Missouri's hallway, he takes off his cap and runs his hand back through his sweat-matted hair. He would've gone straight to the shower except he doesn't want to miss Missouri's outraged reaction when he sits down for a glass of water in his dirty work clothes.

He's walking up to the kitchen when Missouri's voice brings him up short. "…not that I know of," she says. "You and Dean are special."

"There must have been others," Castiel insists.

"An angel who leaves his mark on a living man? A man who puts his seal on that same angel? No, honey, I don't think so."

Dean freezes, railroaded by the focus of their conversation. His face, already warm from the sun, heats up further. He doesn't know why it should embarrass him that Castiel discusses him with Missouri. They have to talk about all kinds of things.

But why spotlight the thing between him and Cas?

Missouri's and Castiel's voices issue from the kitchen, their talk counterpointed by rhythmic little plops. Stomach tying into a knot, Dean eases closer to the open door. He knows he's acting foolishly, but he can't help it.

The two of them sit at the table, shelling peas onto a red-and-white checkered tablecloth. When they first came here, Dean expected Missouri and Castiel to retreat to a dark room to meditate from sunrise to sundown. Instead, they chat while working in Missouri's garden, have deep conversations over cups of tea, or go grocery shopping together. As a result, Castiel seems to be more at ease than he's been in weeks.

Swallowing the very sensible impulse to make himself known, Dean flattens his body against the wall.

  


"Did you expect it?" Missouri wants to know.

"That Dean would bring me back from Purgatory?" Cas asks. "No."

"I think he surprised a lot of people," Missouri muses.

"I still don't think there's a connection," Castiel says quietly. "Between the rising of the Old Ones and – and Dean and me. Our bond."

Dean almost snorts. For a moment, Castiel sounds as reluctant to talk about them as Dean feels himself. At least he isn't the only one squirming when people point at the elephant in the room.

"What makes you think that?" Missouri asks.

"It's," Cas pauses, as if considering his next word. "A hunch," he finally decides.

"So you're playing at hunches now?" Missouri teases.

"It seems to work for Sam and Dean," Castiel says. Outside, Dean rolls his eyes. They base their actions on more than hunches, thank you very much. Well. Sometimes.

"You're taking a lot of cues from the Winchesters," Missouri says.

"And you advise against it?" Castiel asks, a smile in his voice.

Missouri laughs warmly. "No, you could pick worse examples."

Dean's mouth twitches into a smile. Deciding he's made enough of an ass of himself he quietly retreats from the kitchen door. He's turned in the direction of the stairs when Missouri speaks up again.

"I'm glad Dean is settling down with you," she says, her words freezing Dean to the spot.

There's a pause inside the kitchen before Castiel asks in a wary tone, "Why do you think we would? Settle down?"

"Oh, you're all up in one another's space all the time," Missouri says, chuckling. "I just assumed."

Dean clenches his jaw, battling the strange feeling that Missouri's referring to strangers when in fact she's talking about him. Him and Cas, settling down.

Jesus, is that even on the table? Dean's been so wrapped up in his concerns about the next threat and the next life-or-death situation he never even – is that what they look like to other people?

Distantly, he notices that Castiel remains silent for quite some time. Eventually he says, "I don't think we are that kind of people."

"Castiel," Missouri says. "I'm not talking about a white picket fence and a lawnmower. But you and Dean could have a good life together. Don't tell me you don't think about that?"

Dean inhales a breath, his chest suddenly tight. For a second, a second only, he feels a bright, sharp longing like he hasn't in a very long time.

Back in the kitchen, Castiel answers, "I don't."

Dean swallows, struggling to get his thoughts under control. For a moment, he'd seen a vague image of what Missouri had been talking about, but now it's as if a brick wall collapsed in front of his eyes. It's too much, too fast. It's foolish. Castiel's _I don't_ hangs in the air behind Dean, and he knows exactly why Castiel said that. Because he doesn't expect there will be a life on the far side of the apocalypse, and that's realistic, it's sensible.

And yet Dean found himself – _for a moment_ – wanting things he'd given up on years ago, and it pulls the rug right out from under his feet. He can't – he can't get into that again.

Gritting his teeth against the questions that light up in his mind one by one, Dean climbs the stairs to the bathroom. At least he still has enough sense to set his feet lightly on the stairs.

Missouri cracks open another peapod while she listens to the retreat of Dean's panic and confusion from the hall outside the kitchen. What is Dean thinking? That he can eavesdrop unnoticed in the house of a psychic? Missouri sighs inwardly. _That boy._

For a second she considers calling Dean back, but she knows it won't help. John's oldest son is a storm of unanswered questions right now, and the only person who can answer them is Dean himself. She only hopes he'll figure it out soon, because at the moment he does neither himself nor Castiel any favors.

Sometimes Missouri wishes she could sit down with people and untangle their head chaos for them. It always looks a lot more manageable from the outside. But she gave up that ambition long ago. People rarely accept solutions they don't have to fight for.

"Missouri?" Castiel prompts.

"Why not?" she asks.

Castiel shrugs, looking away. "Now is enough for me."

Missouri smiles, delighted. "That is very Zen for an angel."

"Zen teachings make a lot of sense," Castiel confirms, and drops a handful of peas into the bowl between them. Missouri watches as he picks up another of the green pods, breaks it open, and pops one of the peas into his mouth.

Noticing her gaze, Castiel looks up.

"You and Dean," Missouri admits. "You still baffle me. If there's a plan behind you I can't see it."

"Maybe there is no plan," Castiel says softly.

"You'd prefer that, wouldn't you?" Missouri asks. "That the way you are now is a result of nothing but the choices you two have made."

"I like to believe," Castiel pauses and smiles. "That we are making it up as we go."

The modest hope behind his words surprises Missouri. Reading the angel still doesn't come easy. His moods reach her in the form of transient shapes, but by now she can decipher him much like she could divine the weather by looking at clouds or smelling the air for rain.

Castiel is improvising. His awareness of himself shifts as fast as the sky in the evening, but the need to do good resonates in everything he does like the soft, barely there whisper of leaves in a breeze.

It gives Missouri back a sense of faith she hasn't had in a long time. Faith not in Heaven or another higher power, but in the significance of a single person.

"You know," Missouri says. "I think that's exactly what you're doing. And it amazes me."

Castiel tilts his head. "You don't wish for a predestined pattern to the way people behave?"

"Heavens, no." Missouri chuckles, shaking her head. "I like the unpredictable. If you could read people as clearly as I do, you'd appreciate it if they surprised you too."

Evening finds Dean in bed with a copy of Lovecraft's _Weird Tales_.

_No recognized school of sculpture had animated this terrible object_ , Dean reads, getting to the part where some doomed bastard gets his hands on a statue of Cthulhu.

_The figure, which was finally passed slowly from man to man for close and careful study, was between seven and eight inches in height, and of exquisitely artistic workmanship. It represented a monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an octopus-like head whose face was a mass of feelers, a scaly, rubbery-looking body, prodigious claws on hind and fore feet, and long, narrow wings behind._

_An octopus-like head whose face was a mass of feelers_ , Dean repeats to himself. Jesus. Isn't he glad to be mixed up in all this. He leafs ahead through the book, eyes landing on a painting of the Big Bad itself, in all its hideous gloriousness.

  


When he finds himself stopping at another illustration, this time of an actual Cthulhu disciple who looks like a walking mackerel, Dean finally closes the book. He's had enough. Plus, he'll never be able to look at fish sticks the same way.

Dean sighs. He's stretched out on top of the bedspread, stripped down to his boxers and a t-shirt, but his skin still feels tacky. The room traps the day's heat even though it's dark outside and the window stands open.

Castiel sits beside Dean, his back against the headboard and his legs drawn up. He balances his journal on his thighs and fills one page after the other with his looped, elegant handwriting. He's gone for pajama bottoms, no shirt, leaving Dean with a good view of his chest, the tattoo that underlines his collarbone and the handprint scar.

Missouri's voice echoes in Dean's head. _You and Dean are special._

  


Dean doesn't know why but he rather she didn't call them that. He doesn't like the attention, not from Missouri and certainly not from assholes like Tim Janklow. It's been alright as long as whatever happened between Dean and Castiel stayed between them. It's been safe ground. This has been no one's business but their own. But now people want to start asking questions, start labeling things, and it makes Dean question their status quo too.

Where do they stand, exactly?

Looking back, it's a bit hard defining the moment when their friendship went from plain support and trust to something else. Dean remembers that at some point the looks they exchanged seemed more risky than they had been before. Their history's something Dean doesn't quite know how to frame. There had been those first tense months after Dean's stint in the Pit where they danced around each other, trying to figure each other out. Then came the running and the hiding after Cas rebelled. _I gave everything for you!_ And at the end of it all, apocalypse looming strong, they faced down the devil and won, but they both lost everything in the process. What followed were those rough years of the civil war where distance and secrets covered everything between them. Finally there was this year: the rescuing each other and the sex, all kind of happening in a rush.

Sometimes Dean still can't believe they've only known each other for five years. It feels like five lifetimes.

Now Dean lies in bed with Castiel, and if he's honest with himself he doesn't even scheme to get the angel naked. He's comfortable just sharing a bed, reading, writing, being at ease in each other's presence. The discovery rattles Dean because he gets the suspicion their relationship has run right past him, approaching a place he isn't ready to be in yet – or maybe he is ready and that scares him too.

Once more he remembers Missouri's suggestion that they settle down and the shockwave it caused. It shocks him so because maybe deep down, he _wants_ it. He wants to think about himself and Castiel in long terms.

But.

But he's always told himself his life doesn't have room for that kind of commitment. Hell, his life _eats_ that kind of commitment. And Castiel has it right, if there would be no tomorrow, what would be the use making plans for it?

Dean looks at Castiel's profile, the easy set of his mouth and the eyes that follow the pen he's using.

So why doesn't Cas think about the future? Dean wonders. Because he believes he doesn't have one is why. And if he keeps baring his throat to every demon and hellspawn on the planet, his belief will soon be proved true.

Anger crackles in the depths of Dean's chest, reminding him of Castiel facing off Meg with a gun under his chin, Cas running after Kali for answers without a thought to any consequences, Cas with his low opinion of himself. Telling Dean he deserves whatever's coming to him.

It feels too much…too much like how Dean's always felt about himself. _Deserving whatever's coming to him_. And deep down, Dean knows he only deserves bad things.

Dean clenches his jaw. Maybe that's why this thing with Cas can't end well. Castiel…he's good. No matter the stupid decisions, Cas has always been fundamentally _good_. And Dean destroys good things.

"If you keep thinking that loud, you're going to wake up Missouri," Cas says without looking up.

"How do you know what I'm thinking?" Dean says, rolling his eyes, and playing at the old joke between them. "Reading my mind again?"

"I'm not reading your mind again," Castiel says, huffing in exasperation. "I can only read you when we're connected, touching along our bond. Right now I can simply tell you're too tense. That's usually enough for me to know that you have too many things on your mind." He puts down his pen and looks over at Dean. "What's it about?"

Dean shifts and winces when a fold of the pillow rubs against his sunburned neck. "It's the weather. I'm more of a Norse climate type of person."

"You did get quite the sunburn," Castiel agrees, eyes cataloguing the freckled and sunburnt skin along Dean's face and neck.

Dean squints down at his chest, lifting the collar of his t-shirt to check out the line between red skin and paler skin. "I look like a domino," he complains.

With a smile, Castiel leans over, tugs at Dean's collar and investigates the sunburn. "I could fix it," he offers.

Dean smiles. "Nah, don't bother."

Although he could ask Castiel to rub some aloe onto his skin at least. Dean's afraid, though, that if he opens up a little now the anger would cut across everything else. He doesn't want a repeat of their fights and strained silences from Greg's farm. At Missouri's house, things have been good between them. With Cas going to Missouri for consultation about his dreams, and Dean and Sam busy working on Missouri's house – it's been peaceful, domestic almost.

Reluctantly, Castiel settles back on his side of the bed. "Dean, are we—" he starts, then begins again. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Dean says but that didn't sound honest even to him. "Just the usual," he amends. "How's your dream analysis going?"

"It's still very difficult," Castiel says. "I can't remember much and Missouri says the signals she receives from me are jumbled. Are you evading me?"

"Cas," Dean mutters, pretty much at the end of his rope. "Let it go, okay?" He opens his book again, feels Castiel's gaze linger on him before he starts writing again, his pen scratching steadily over the pages.

So much for being comfortable just sharing a bed.

Sam watches his brother for a long moment. It's Saturday morning, and Dean's curled up with a collection of Lovecraft's short stories and a cup of coffee on the couch in Missouri's sunroom. He's got a blanket wrapped around himself, and a soft smile on his face as he reads.

If Sam's honest with himself, he'd admit it's kind of eerie to see Dean losing himself in books and research. Huh.

"So…how's the research coming?" Sam finally asks, dumping another series of grimoires and books of arcane literature on the coffee table.

"You know, I'd actually like this guy if he hadn't turned out to be some black-magic-obsessed douchebag," Dean mutters, sighing. "His stories are pretty cool though."

"If you hadn't been too busy having all that sex in high school, maybe you would've gotten a chance to read some of them back then," Sam says with a smirk as he settles down at Missouri's old oak writing desk, pulling his laptop open. "You'd have gotten more enjoyment out of them back then probably."

Dean scowls, closing the book in front of him and sitting up on the couch. "I read books back then. Just…not a lot. Never had enough time."

Sam smiles sadly at that, remembering how much his brother's schooling suffered from the thousands of other responsibilities John had placed on Dean's shoulders growing up. He looks up and notices Dean watching the sunroom's doorway with a perplexed frown on his face, probably waiting for Castiel to walk through it.

"Cas is working with Missouri in the garden," Sam supplies, even though Dean never asked.

Dean turns to look at Sam, shrugging before picking up a book again and turning to a page he'd marked with a bookmark. "What I don't understand is the fact that Lovecraft knew how bad these things were," he deflects expertly. "I mean, listen to this: _It is absolutely necessary, for the peace and safety of mankind, that some of earth's dark, dead corners and unplumbed depths be left alone; lest sleeping abnormalities wake to resurgent life, and blasphemously surviving nightmares squirm and splash out of their black lairs to newer and wider conquests._ "

"His stories are cautionary tales in a way," Sam says. "He knew what existed out there, and used his literature to explore it. And then he tried to control it with that cult of his. Got himself killed."

"But listen up," Dean says, holding up a different book. "I think I figured out some of the things we've been seeing popping up. Those fish-mutant things…Sam, when's the last time you read 'The Shadow Over Innsmouth'?"

Sam frowns, trying to recall the story from his childhood. A flicker of a something plays at his memory, and then: "Oh, shit," he says, the memory of being pulled underwater by something no longer man, but not quite monster or fish tickling at his mind.

"Exactly," Dean says, smiling. " _In the ocean lie the Deep Ones, humanoid fish creatures who worship Cthulhu and other Great Old Ones_ ," he reads from one of his books.

"Shit," Sam says again, shaking his head. "Why didn't I catch that earlier?"

"But that's not all," Dean says, picking up yet another book. "You know the thing Mira's been investigating in Peru? According to Cthulhu lore, there's something actually called 'The Cloud-Thing', a blob of living, sentient darkness. Some kind of man-eating, cloudy mass that can cover entire cities."

Sam leans back in his chair and turns to his brother, his frown deepening. "Are you telling me that everything we've been tracking can be traced back to Lovecraft and the Cthulhu stories he and others wrote?"

"Man, I bet if we read far and wide enough we could trace it all," Dean says, picking up a folder full of notes. "Like this: I found a story in the mythos about something called the _Fire Vampires of Fthaggua_. These things resemble crimson bursts of lightning, and they gain sustenance by draining energy from their victims before they kill them. They absorb their memories and their intelligence. According to the stories, the victims are so affected they burst into flames as if experiencing spontaneous combustion. Sound familiar?"

"Yeah, definitely," Sam says, feeling a deep sense of unease crash over him. "Well, shit."

"Exactly," Dean says, fingering the pile of books beside him on the couch. "And I was thinking – so the first time Lovecraft started writing about Cthulhu was in 1926, right? Do you think he was tapping into something real back then?"

Sam bites his bottom lip and punches a few buttons on his laptop's keypad, pulling up the Word document containing his notes about Lovecraft. He scans the timeline he put together, nodding slowly. "It's possible. In his stories, Lovecraft often talks about Cthulhu reaching out to humans through dreams. Maybe he was writing from personal experience. Maybe the line between fiction and reality never even existed."

"Maybe—" Dean says, pausing and looking more and more troubled. "I wonder if Cthulhu is the reason Lovecraft tried to open Purgatory in the first place. Maybe it made him do it. Through the dreams or something."

Sam frowns, thinking it over. "So you _do_ think there's a connection between Purgatory and Cthulhu then?"

Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair. "We've all been avoiding talking about it, but Sam, the similarities are too friggin' similar. Cas is having weird-ass dreams. Chanting stuff that only that crazy Cthulhu-linked cult knows anything about. Cas opened Purgatory. _Lovecraft opened Purgatory_. Kali confirmed that Cthulhu's been released. Lovecraft is the first person to have written about Cthulhu and some of these other 'Great Old Ones' who once ruled Earth. There has to be a connection, here, man. What exactly it is, I don't know."

Sam sucks in a deep breath, nodding, even as the twists and turns rolling around in his belly make him nauseous. It's what they've all been fearing, but refusing to talk about. It's been one of the (several) elephants in the room since their confrontation with Meg, and no one's known how exactly to touch on it. Dean's way too wired up about Castiel as it is, messed up about possibly losing him, and Sam hasn't wanted to push for anything that could blow up in all of their faces.

The sound that tinkles out of his cellphone catches Sam unawares, and he frowns as he fishes it out of his back pocket, while Dean's changed expression signals the culprit all too clearly.

At Sam's eyeroll, Dean finally breaks, laughing as he winks at Sam. "You're going steady. Thought she deserved her own special ringtone for incoming calls."

"The Twilight Zone theme? Really, Dean?" Sam shakes his head, examining the screen of his cell. "She says the signal isn't too good, so she'll Skype me instead."

His brother leers at him from over his piles of books, falling into the change of conversation with ease. " _Skype_ you? Is that what they're calling it these days, Sammy?" He huffs another laugh then. "Did you tell her our Skype name?"

Sam is just texting the information right now, and he can well imagine the look on Mira's face. "We need to change that," he retorts. "It isn't very professional."

Dean snickers. "It perfectly describes my profession."

Sam eyes him. "It perfectly describes your teenage girl-like crush on a TV character," he mumbles under his breath, before adding in a louder tone, "I have no idea how you ever expected me to believe you were straight when you would crush on so many guys. Can we talk about that summer you forced me to watch every Robert Redford movie in creation?"

Dean's face falls, and he clears his throat. "Shudup, Sammy," he says, shrugging his shoulders with obvious embarrassment "I wasn't…I…he's a good actor!"

Sensing his brother's obvious discomfort, Sam tones down his teasing. He watches Dean for a beat, the tense line of his shoulders and the sudden droop of his smile. "You don't have to be embarrassed about it, Dean."

"Sam, I swear to god if you go there with me right now, I will kick your ass," Dean says, scowling.

"Okay, okay," Sam sighs, holding up his hands and smiling. "We don't have to talk about your fluid sexuality."

Dean growls loudly, hitting his head back against the couch cushions, over and over again. Sam laughs, turning away from Dean's breakdown and letting another few seconds pass as he watches Skype launch on his laptop. After a moment of silence he says, "So, speaking of epic gay love stories, are you and Cas alright then? I know the last two weeks, with the hunters at Bobby's…it must have been weird."

Sam looks over to see Dean running a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. He slides to the edge of the couch and reaches for another book, before turning to catch Sam's eye. "Things have been weird, I guess."

Sam nods; he's sensed as much lately, but didn't want to broach it with so much else going on. "I kind of figured something was up," he admits. "So…what's going on?"

"What's not going on, Sam?" Dean says, standing up and walking toward him, shoulders slumped. "I'm fucking everything up like always. While some eons-old sea god is screwing with Cas in his dreams. Not to mention the fact that Cas wants to throw himself to the wolves anytime we bring up what we need to do next. I got a bunch of hunters that want to judge me for what I do in my own goddamn bedroom, so much so I can't even look at Cas when they're around. Missouri thinks we're settling down together, but Cas doesn't think we're the type because why would he? I mean, look at me for fuck's sake! He deserves better, man. And did I mention that I have no friggin' idea what the hell is going on anymore. How is this even our lives? I mean, how in the world are we supposed to take down a friggin' sea god?!"

" _Dean_ ," Sam says, voice rolling soft and comforting as his brother's frantic freakout finally quiets down. He knows Dean's riled up, dealing with a lot right now, and Sam just wants Dean to know he's there for him. "Come on, man. Just sit back down. Take a breath. Count to five, okay? Please."

Dean scowls, but he obeys Sam's orders. He sits back down on the couch, presses his elbows down on his knees and cradles his face in the palm of his hands. Sam hears him take several deep breaths, listens to him calm down, slowly, but surely. They don't talk for a long time, but the sound of Dean's steady breathing is a familiar comfort for Sam. It reminds Sam of growing up, all those dark nights in the middle of nowhere, Sam scared shitless that Dad wouldn't come back from some far-away hunt. But Dean would lie down on the neighboring bed and tell Sam stories about anything and everything, just to take his mind off of the bad things. There were long moments when they would just be quiet together, listening to the sound of the night, listening to each other's breathing. Sometimes it was just enough to know they were okay; they were alive and together, no matter what else happened. It was enough to get through the bad times.

"Dean," Sam says again, low and quiet.

Dean sits up again, his eyes tired and red-rimmed. "Yeah?"

"You okay now? Got what needed getting off your chest?" Sam asks, lips curling softly.

Dean snorts and shakes his head. "Bitch," he mumbles before running a hand through his tangled hair and settling back against the couch. "We're so fucked."

"Yeah we are," Sam huffs quietly, before turning back to his laptop where the Skype program is waiting for him to login.

Sam quickly types in their username and password and listens to the whoosh of the program as it launches. A few seconds pass before the ringing begins.

"Calling Doctor Sexy," Mira says huskily after Sam answers the call, and from the couch Dean cackles loudly.

Sam groans, feels his cheeks heat a little, and he thumbs decisively at the sunroom door until Dean sighs, pushes up off the couch, stretches, and ambles past Sam and through the doorway, all while smiling lewdly at the laptop. Sam sighs, bringing his attention back to the Skype call, where he can see a fuzzy version of Mira on the video-cam. He manages a smile as her face fills the small screen. The image is blurred but he can see the way her lips curl up in amusement, and the colorful tropical plants surrounding her current location. "Sorry again about the username. It's all on Dean. How's it going down there anyway?"

Mira's tone is satisfied. "It's monsters gone wild, still. But that's not why I'm calling."

Sam's ears prick up. "You got something?"

A nod, and then a big smile that is easily seen through the live video feed. "I'm heading back to the States today. Should get into JFK in the morning. I think I got some big news for you. Tamara and I hooked up with this guy down here, Garth…he knows Bobby."

Bobby has mentioned Garth before, always with a look that combines long-suffering tolerance with something like disgust, and Sam grimaces, gets a chuckle back for it.

"He's not that bad. And get this, he has these contacts down here." She pauses as a paper cup appears on the table, and a hand waves in front of the screen. "Tamara says hi by the way."

"Hi back," Sam says, smiling. "So what about these contacts?"

Mira takes a sip from the cup and wipes at her mouth. "One of his contacts says he knows that mark Castiel saw on Crowley's dagger, the one we've been floating around for any info. He says he thinks he recognizes it from an old scroll. That particular old scroll is about to get delivered to me, and I'm bringing it to you babe. I figure it could be the lead we've been looking for. If we can find someone to translate it, that is. At the very least, we can see if it's the mark we've been looking for."

The mark of Hastur, Sam thinks. With Kali's information, they figured out that Crowley was most likely in possession of one of the three Cthulhu-slaying weapons Hastur created. The markings seemed to match. Unfortunately, the dagger is now long gone, caught in some strange other dimension, but the other two weapons are out there somewhere, having been hidden by Hastur's cult. According to Kali, those weapons will be marked by both Hastur's sign and the Elder Gods sign. Sam scrubs a hand through his hair, says, "Yeah, it's definitely a start. This contact of Garth's hasn't been able to translate the scroll?"

"Not yet." Mira gives a half-shrug and sighs. "I emailed Garth about that and he just got back…some sketchy stuff, and he says he doesn't feel comfortable emailing me more info. He promised he'd deliver me the scroll though, and I'll bring it with me so maybe some of our people in the States will be able to decipher it. Maybe Castiel can at least confirm if it has the same markings he saw on the dagger and was shown by Kali."

"That sounds like a good plan," Sam says, smiling because, maybe, just maybe this is the lead they've been waiting weeks for.

"I gotta get going, Sam," Mira says, looking over her shoulders at the increased activity behind her before turning and smiling back at him. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Would you and your boys be able to meet us halfway? Maybe at Tamara's safe house outside of Wichita? "

"Yeah, yeah," Sam says, pushing his chair back and stretching out his long legs. "I'll go touch base with Dean and Cas now. See what we can do."

"Hey," she adds, arching her brow suggestively. "I cannot wait to get you alone tomorrow."

After a grin, Sam offers her the leer his brother directed at him earlier as he leans closer to the screen and says, "Please hurry up then."

"Hasta luego, Doctor," Mira whispers, touching her hand to her lips and blowing Sam a kiss.

"Stay safe," Sam says around a soft laugh before their connection ends. He leans back in his seat, an array of emotions floating through his body. Nerves. Excitement. Fear. Anticipation.

But first things first. They just might have a lead.

It's raining when they head out late Sunday evening, the overcast sky stretching north toward the hills. Dean gives up the keys to the Impala and lets Sam drive them toward the meet-up location with Mira. He settles beside Castiel in the backseat, rolls the window halfway down and breathes in the smell of fresh rain and damp earth, lets the cool wind chill his already sleep-numb body. Cas is quiet at his side, reading through one of a million grimoires they've been spending too much quality time with lately, recording his own thoughts in his journal he's been filling up with theorems and ideas, snatches of the dream visions he's only been able to uncover through his work with Missouri.

Dean watches Castiel for much of the drive, caught in the quiet intensity of his presence. He relaxes, legs spread open and back slouched low in the seat. After a while, his eyelids feel like they weigh a ton, and he finds himself drifting off to the lull of the rain and the steady rolling of the tires, waking only when he hears what sounds like a struggle, soft moans and sharp movements. He's still trying to grapple with consciousness when he feels the Impala jerk forward underneath him. His eyes finally shoot open, his hands going for his gun as he sits up in the backseat.

He blinks rapidly, trying to figure out where the hell he is. In the Impala. On the road. The sound of loud drumming echoing all around him: rainwater hitting the Impala's roof.

"Dean, it's Cas. Something's wrong," Sam's voice cuts in from the driver's seat, his words tense and uneasy. Dean's eyes swerve around to find Castiel sitting upright beside him, eyes rolled back as his body shakes back and forth against the backseat.

"Shit, shit, shit," Dean spits out, recognizing one of those freaky trances Castiel had last gone into back in the Everglades. "Cas, man, don't do this now," he says, but he can barely even hear himself above the rain, the noise of the storm grinding out everything else he wants to say.

The weather had worsened during Dean's sleep, the rain hitting the windshield in cascading waves that make it seem like they're driving under a waterfall, plunging down into a dark sea. Sam must have pulled the car over, Dean suddenly realizes. It can't be more than six in the evening, but outside the Impala's window, it's dark as night. The rain moves all around them, like some living force trying to work its way inside. Dean can't see the main road, still can't tell where the hell they are, if they're far from or close to civilization, so he settles his eyes back on his catatonic friend, who has begun to chant and rock in tandem.

"This is what you were talking about, right?" Sam says, voice hushed, but still resounding loudly in the tight confines of the car, his concern evident even over the pounding rain.

Dean swallows and nods jerkily, rubbing his hand over his face. His eyes fix on Castiel, noting the paleness of his face, the rigid, hard line of his shoulders. "C'mon, man," he urges. The noise of the rain grows until it's almost deafening, so Dean yells even louder: "Snap out of it, Cas!"

Castiel is shaking even harder now, the car vibrating with his movements. His chants are rough and throaty, but rhythmic, directed, _meaningful_. Dean feels like he's been sucker-punched, his muscles pulling so tight in his chest, it's hard to move. He isn't ready for this to be happening again, not this soon. Not when they still haven't gotten to the root of Castiel's dreams. The angel's forehead is damp with sweat, his face as bleached out as the solid white of his eyes.

"Try shaking him," Sam suggests, sounding breathless. Dean groans, remembering what happened the last time he tried to do that – Cas shooting forward out of his hold, and the rolling expanse of his huge fucking wings.

Dean lets several seconds pass, and the car feels too hot, too small, like all the air has been sucked out of it. Before too long the rocking motion is too much to handle. "Fuck this," he hisses, sucking in a deep, steadying breath before reaching out and placing his hand on Castiel's shoulder. The angel goes stock still immediately, his chanting fading as well. Dean looks Sam's way, startled that it worked.

He's startled again a moment later. Without a word, Castiel launches forward – tearing himself out of Dean's hold, reaching for the door handle, pushing through the backdoor of the car, and moving so fast into the outside world Dean has only a second to take it all in.

In the distance, thunder rolls deep and loud, and lightning flashes across the sky. Dean frantically yells "Cas!" as he watches the angel land on top of the rain-slick blacktop, his body shooting forward to move across the shoulder and into the surrounding woods.

"I'll stay close to the car, you go get him," Sam shouts, as they both head toward their doors at the same time.

Dean nods once, and then pushes himself outside. The storm is in full force now, sheets of heavy, hard rain battering against him. He's soaked through in a matter of seconds. The rain's so thick it's like he's swimming through it, and it feels like the water is seeping deep beneath his skin. He imagines he's turning into one of those fishthings, breathing water instead of air.

Dean runs alongside the shoulder, the headlights from the Impala reflecting off of the rain, barely lighting up enough of the surrounding area for him to see. He moves toward the woods, calling Castiel's name as he slides down the wet grass, tripping over the broken lumps of uncovered earth. His boots sink into the thick mud, but he plods forward without pause, tree branches slapping against his bare arms, and his heart beating loudly against his ribcage.

Dean finds Castiel by accident, actually. He bumps into him just as he's working himself free of a tangled clump of roots. The angel is standing still in the middle of the woods, head facing the sky as the rain pours over him.

Dean watches him carefully for a long moment, swiping a hand across his eyes in an attempt to see through the sheets of rain. His feet are covered by clumps of muddy soil, binding him to the earth. Castiel himself is slick with rain and mud, patches of grass caught in his shirt and on his jeans, and Dean wonders if he fell, if he's hurt.

"Cas?" Dean says carefully, moving his hand along the angel's rain-drenched shoulder.

There's no response. The only answer is the sky opening up further, thunder clapping so loud Dean can feel it in his bones.

"Please, Cas, look at me," he tries again.

When his words still go unheard, Dean steps closer, slow and careful, not wanting to spook his friend again. He lines his body up alongside Castiel's rigid one, takes Castiel's hand in his own and pushes it against his own shoulder, while spreading his other hand across Castiel's chest. He forces the thoughts through his head, directing them out toward Castiel, wanting this to work the way Castiel made it work back in Jersey. Pressing their hands against each other's brands, Dean pushes the words forward: _Cas, hear me. Please, Cas, come back to me._

Dean feels something pass between them, a soft jolt, like the shock of static electricity. In an instant, Castiel blinks, lashes fluttering long and black before he turns to look straight at Dean. With what light there is, Dean can see his eyes widen, sharp and focused, endlessly blue. Castiel's face flushes with color again, a pink shine just visible under cheeks smeared in streaks of brown and green, the camouflage of a soldier waiting in the trenches.

"Dean," Castiel says, dragging the sounds of his name out, hoarse and uneven.

"Hey, Cas," Dean breathes out, arms wrapping around Castiel's shoulders and pulling him in close, their wet bodies pushing together even as the rain continues to fall. "You goddamn son of a bitch. I swear if you do that again…" He stops, and he actually starts to laugh because he doesn't know what else to do; the sounds just explode out of his chest, bright and vibrant in the evening air.

The rain picks up then, and just as Dean wonders if he'll ever be dry again, he feels Castiel's arms reach around him and tighten. "It's raining," he mumbles, pulling Dean in closer, as if in an attempt to keep him dry.

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean huffs, sliding his lips against Castiel's cold neck, tracing the rainwater sliding underneath the collar of his shirt, before letting his forehead press against the slick curls of his matted hair.

"It's alright now. I'm here," Castiel whispers quietly into his ear, and Dean laughs even harder because goddammit, this is crazy.

Castiel's hands clutch tightly around his waist, and Dean sucks in a wet breath. "You scared the shit out of me. Again," he murmurs, his eyes going wet with the rain or something else he doesn't want to name.

"But I'm okay now," Castiel assures again, words clear and strong, bouncing loud over the drumbeat rain. But underneath the sound of his voice, Dean hears – _no, he feels_ – the things unsaid. Castiel's fear and his broken edges, his emotions on a steady spiral out of control.

There are still too many questions, but Dean closes his eyes to them, his body heavy with sudden exhaustion. He sags into Castiel's strong grip, feeling boneless. The rain runs down their faces, into their mouths, and before Dean knows it, Castiel's pulling him in closer and kissing him breathless, his hands grasping Dean's arms, his nose bumping against Dean's, their lips meeting with the force of another deluge.

Dean kisses Castiel's wet mouth right back, sucks the whispered assurances from his lips, tastes rain and earth as he forces them deeper, winds them even closer, their tongues slowly fucking. A storm gathers inside of Dean, while the other rages around him, and it's a long time before they break apart.

When they do, Dean takes Castiel's hand and leads him back toward the Impala, moving slowly so as not to slip in the puddles and mud slicks. The world surrounding them is a barren landscape, gray sky and gray hills, with a dark road splitting the land in half. Halfway to the car, Dean stops them, closes his eyes and turns his head up. Water continues to pour down from the sky, and Dean stands beside Castiel for a long time, letting the rain wash over them.

"Here, drink up," Dean says, pushing the steaming cup of hot chocolate Castiel's way.

Castiel smiles gratefully, sliding his back against the headboard and wrapping his palms around the mug. He sips slowly, eyes locked on Dean walking across the bedroom.

Dean clears his throat, moving to where their duffles are pushed by the door. When they arrived at the cabin, they tossed their wet clothes into the washer and immediately hit the showers. Dean searches through his bag, pulling out his flannel pajama pants and an old t-shirt, sliding into the clothing before climbing on the bed. Cas doesn't say a word the entire time, just watches Dean as he crawls on top of the covers.

Dean settles in beside Castiel, pressing their shoulders together and knocking his head back against the headboard. Sam and Mira took off together as soon as they arrived, but Dean can hear Tamara talking shop in the living room over the phone.

They're at one of Tamara's safe houses, a small log cabin hunkered in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. It's dusty and rarely used, and Dean has to blink his eyes against the warm glow of the lamplight and the shadows it casts in the corner of the room.

Dean turns his head and eyes Castiel, who seems to be staring off into space. He's wearing a t-shirt that's so faded it's gone from yellow to white, so frayed and threadbare, it's almost see-through. There's an array of holes that string around the collar like a chain, and Dean is tempted to stick a finger through one of them.

"So," Dean says, exhaling and running a hand over his face. "Are we going to talk about this?"

Castiel nods like it had already been decided, and he turns to face Dean. "All she could see was darkness," he says. His words are dark and quiet, smoothly cryptic.

Dean frowns, feeling like he's jumped into a conversation that had already started without him. "What are you talking about, Cas?"

"Missouri could not piece together my dreams," Castiel says slowly, voice coming out as a low rumble. "Because she could not see beyond the darkness at the edges of them."

"Okay, that's—" Dean pauses for a moment trying to figure out how to respond, because more than anything Castiel's words make him feel like he's cracking open inside. But Dean can't let that happen. Somewhere deep within him, the frustration and anger and fear are boiling hot and heavy beneath the surface of his skin, and if he lets go, he'll lose it.

Dean closes his eyes, because he's so damn exhausted, and his shoulders are tight and aching. Castiel presses closer, and the angel smells like Ivory soap and mint toothpaste, which is ridiculously human and domestic. But everything about him is still just this shade of wrong, because Cas radiates that something _more_ just underneath the human charade. There's this pulse that surrounds him, some kind of energy sliding under his skin, burning bright enough to make him something more than human. There are moments when Dean remembers that Castiel is something other, something old and terrifying.

"What's in the darkness?" Dean asks quietly after a time, his voice calmer than he expected it could be.

Castiel turns his head to look at him, eyes bluer than ever. "The place he's trying to drag me to."

"Why you?" Dean croaks, nails digging into his palms as he fists his hands.

"I don't know," Castiel says, quieter this time.

Dean releases a sharp breath, a shudder of air and frustration. "Well," he says, voice gone soft but firm, "Whatever he wants from you, he's not getting it. That much I know."

"We don't know what's going on here," Castiel says, his voice low and serious. "We don't know enough."

"We know what we won't let happen," Dean says sharply. He's had to fight to keep everything he's ever gotten. He's not going to stop now. "That should be enough for now."

Castiel looks conflicted, like he's holding back something, but he nods slowly. "Maybe."

"Cas," Dean huffs, sliding one of their hands together. "I don't know what you want me to do."

"I want you to promise me," Castiel says, voice direct but edged with the slightest hint of desperation. "If there is no other choice, you have to let me do what is necessary to save you, Sam, and this world."

The pain in Dean's gut blooms so fast it leaves him breathless, and the words clogged in his throat are threatening to choke him. He clenches his jaw and snorts out his frustration. "Why are we even discussing that?" he mutters. "Why are you bringing it up?"

"If there is no other choice…" Castiel stops, words trailing off into a loaded silence, left to hang in the air between them.

Dean blows out an angry breath, muscles clenching in his shoulders. "There's always another choice. Dammit, Cas, you know that. After everything we've been through."

Castiel moves quickly, placing the hot chocolate on the side table before taking Dean's face between his hands. His palms are still warm from the cup as he draws their faces close together. "Dean," he says quietly. "Know that I've chosen you, again and again. Every choice I've made has brought me here. Back to you."

Dean brings his hands up and digs his fingers into Castiel's shoulders and holds him still. He wonders if the shake in Castiel's voice is from regret or grief. Both. "Fuck," he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut tight and inhaling deeply before he continues. "You know I can't promise you anything."

"I know," Castiel replies simply. Dean opens his eyes at that, and Castiel stares at him with the softest expression. "I know you." The angel's voice is quiet, but there's a sharp intensity to his words when he adds, "And I love you."

Dean's hands come up to frame Castiel's face, his fingers brushing over his temples, palms caressing over his stubbled cheeks, thumbs swiping lines across his lips. "Then don't you do anything stupid," he whispers. "You promise _me_ that."

"We are soldiers," Castiel says, voice low and rough. "We always do what we must."

"Don't give me that crap, Cas," Dean hisses, shaking his head and pulling his hands away.

Castiel holds Dean's gaze for a long moment, expression closing off as he turns away and whispers, "This will be our war to fight. One way or another."

When Sam wakes up, the air is still and heavy. He stretches his long legs out, pulling the blanket up to his bare chest and opening his eyes. On the bedside table is a mug of tea, a note that says, _You so sexy_. Sam laughs, remembering last night in vivid detail, the sheets still smelling of them. He turns and shifts until he finds Mira there by the door, watching him with a soft smile.

"Hey," Sam says, noticing that she's freshly showered, her dark hair wrapped in a towel. She's in one of his flannel shirts, but her fingers linger on the top buttons, paused in the middle of doing them up.

"Hey yourself," Mira says, lips quirking. "I didn't want to wake you."

"I can think of a worse way to wake up," Sam mumbles, smiling. "Wanna come back to bed?" He waggles his brows suggestively.

She laughs softly, but doesn't hesitate to throw her towel to the ground and climb onto the bed, sliding down beneath the sheets. Soon Sam's moving his hands underneath the hem of her shirt, to cup her supple breasts and to pinch at her nipples. Mira makes a soft breathy sound when his fingers skitter over her belly, linger along her ribs, and tease at her cunt.

Sam slips his shirt off of her, and he watches the lean muscles in her back shift, the slight pull of her tattooed skin along her spine, the heavy fall of her bare breasts as they bounce with her every movement. His fingers are drawn to her ass, and he strokes across it, gently kneading as she grinds down against him.

They go slow, Mira's hands fisting in Sam's hair, her mouth opening over his neck, tongue moving wet and warm as she tastes him. Sam pulls her underneath his body, spreading himself over her, kissing her softly, relearning the taste and feel of her.

His fingers work up along the muscles of her thighs, and she lets him spread her legs wider with his knees, pulling him in tight as he parts her cunt with his fingers then pushes in with his cock. Mira's hot and wet for him, and she whines hard and long when he slides inside of her, begins to fuck her deep and hard. _God, yes. Yes. Mira, fuck_ , Sam moans as he sinks down and down. The minutes he spends losing himself inside of her feel long and perfect and welcome after so long apart.

Much later, they're laughing lazily, exchanging stories of the past two weeks. Sam stretches his arms up over his head, as Mira winds herself around his chest. The rain's finally stopped, and the bedroom window's cracked open, and Sam stares at the yellow curtains that move with the slight breeze. He wishes they had more time for this; he wonders if he'll ever have the kind of life where this is more than a passing moment between battles.

Mira's fingertips trace over a faded scar on his collarbone. She rests her head on his shoulder, sheets tangling around their legs. He turns his head to look down at her, and she leans up and kisses his eyelids and says, "We probably should get up." Her voice is quiet, knowing.

Sam sighs, tugging her in closer. "Work can wait," he whispers, leaning in to kiss her, needing this to last as long as it can. Maybe there aren't happy endings in their world, but Sam can at least hope for these happy middles, these happy in-between moments, the things they can hold on to when the world starts to crumble.

The cabin is at least a hundred years old, but in surprisingly good condition, despite the layers of dust and the old, cracked wood flooring. Sunlight filters in through its murky windows, sliding over antique furniture, probably from the 1940s. It's cool this morning, the evening rain having left a cold front that settled in over the hills during the night. Dean struggles into a long-sleeved shirt as he makes his way into the kitchen, where he finds Tamara and Mira hunkered over a map that takes up half of the table. Sam is in front of the toaster doing his very best to burn toast.

"Morning folks," Dean says, stumbling toward the coffee machine. "What brave soul let Sam near the stove?"

"Hey!" Sam mumbles, while Mira flashes Dean an understanding smile. "In my defense, your brother did tell me that he knew how to cook eggs," she says with an exaggerated sigh. She puts her hands on her hips and sends Sam a pointed look.

Dean smiles, amused, pausing for a moment to breathe in the burnt scent of overcooked eggs. "Sammy's talents do not lie in the kitchen," he says with a sigh. "If you're interested, I'll tell you the story of how Sam once managed to even burn Koolaid."

His brother scowls and flips him the bird before loading two pieces of charred toast onto his plate. "Fine, more for me then," he mutters, pretending to pout as he settles down at the head of the table and pours himself a tall glass of milk.

"Where's your boyfriend?" Tamara asks with a grin, looking up from the giant map. "You both looked a little rough when you got in last night."

"He's still sleeping. And yeah, yesterday was a little rough," Dean says quietly. He turns away from the curious eyes, and begins rummaging around the pantry until he finds what looks like a decent jar of peanut butter. He takes that, the roll of bread Sam was making toast with, and a jar of peach preserves over to the spare space on the kitchen table.

"Well, at least he's sleeping," Sam says and passes him a banana and a glass of milk to balance off his breakfast.

Dean sighs, shrugs, and scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, maybe." He can feel Sam's gaze on him for a long moment after that, concerned and unwavering.

"Hey, if you want to talk…" Sam says, voice low.

"I'm good," Dean says quickly. He swallows down a bite of banana and clears his throat, glancing over at the map Mira's currently leaning over. "Is that South America?" he asks.

"Yep," Tamara says from across the room, the sound of metal scraping against metal as she loads bullets into the chamber of her shotgun. "We're sending you boys down to do a little investigating first hand. The recon Mira and I have been doing is pointing toward that region of the world as the place to be."

Mira nods, tapping a finger on the map spread out on the table. "We think you both need to see what's going on with your own eyes."

Dean sits back in his chair, nodding. "I think you're probably right. Sam mentioned something about a scroll?"

Mira exhales deeply, her breath ruffling her bangs. "Sorry, guys, but it turned out to be a bust. Our contact got spooked and didn't show with it."

"Crap," Dean says, just as Sam groans from the other end of the table.

"But not all is lost," Mira says quickly. "He did put us in touch with someone else who could help."

Tamara drops a notebook onto the table, the top sheet containing a scrawled phone number and address written in smudged blue ink. "There's this priest, or he used to be one. Jonas Harper, and he dabbles in the occult world, knows a few things about a lot of things. Works out of Brazil. Mira and I were able to talk to him over email."

Dean frowns, eyeing the notebook skeptically. "What can this priest guy do for us?"

Tamara pours herself a cup of coffee and settles down beside Mira at the table. "It seems this _priest guy_ has been knee deep in researching something he calls a deep-water cult out in the boonies near Rio de Janeiro. And considering we've been looking for cults—"

" _Water_ ," Sam interrupts with a sharp breath. "A deep-water cult? Definitely sounds about right."

Dean nods, but he's still not sure. "But what makes this so different from the other crazy stuff we've been hearing about?"

"Jonas actually recognized the mark," Mira explains. "He's who Garth contacted to try to figure out how to translate the scroll."

"Are we sure it's the same mark?" Sam asks, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

"It sounds a lot like it," Tamara says with a nod.

"But boys, you haven't heard the best part," Mira says, smiling.

Dean spreads his hands wide, welcoming the information. "Lay it on us."

Mira drops another paper onto the table, this time a wrinkled sketch of what looks to Dean to be an ornate sword. "Jonas thinks he knows where there's something _with_ the mark that matches the one we're looking for. Or at least something similar enough to give him pause. This sword is an artifact he came across in his travels earlier this year. He might be able to help us track it down again." Mira points at the paper, and Dean leans forward, eyeing the drawing. Curiosity piqued, he picks it up, closely examining the markings along the sword's hilt, noting the similarity to the description Cas gave them for Hastur's and the Elder's signs.

"Huh." He scratches at the stubble on his jaw, thinks how it's just too bad they don't have Crowley's actual dagger to compare the markings to, considering the dagger and the sword are meant to be part of a set.

"It's a damn shame Cas dropped that dagger," Sam says, as if reading Dean's mind.

"Yeah," Dean says, tapping his fingers on the table as he continues to examine the sketch.

"Then again, I bet Meg would have been on it like a fly on shit," Sam grumbles, but then frowns when he catches Dean's eye. He adds quickly, "Not that we're even going to deal with Meg again. As far as I'm concerned, she's dead."

Dean snorts. He doesn't doubt that the demon is still alive, given her propensity for surviving sticky situations, but he doesn't mention it. Maybe he's still sore about Cas wanting to contact her, but Dean is also in no hurry to hear her crazy taunts and cryptic double-speak. It still gives him a hollow feeling of anxiety whenever he thinks on her last words, _The world is going to drown_.

Dean sighs and passes Sam the drawing. His brother considers it for a long moment before he takes another gulp from his glass of milk. "A sword, eh? You think it's kosher?" he asks Mira.

Mira _tsks_. "No idea, baby. But I do know you'll look even prettier with a tan."

Dean actually sees Sam blush, and he shakes his head. "You two are completely disgusting, I hope you know that. Even Hallmark would be offended."

"Shudup, wholphins," Sam retorts easily.

"So, Rio de Janeiro huh?" Dean huffs, shooting Sam the evil eye before quickly changing the subject and pointing at the map.

"Yeah, Jonas says he wants to meet up with you guys as soon as possible," Tamara says. "You think Cas can fly you down there with some of his angel juice?"

"He doesn't have that kind of mojo right now," Dean says, knowing first-hand how weak the angel gets after expending too much energy. He was tapped out for an entire week after he sent Adam to Heaven, and Dean knows carrying all of them to another hemisphere would take a toll on his reserves. "And what he does have left, we're gonna need to save it. We don't know what we're up against."

"In that case," Sam says, grinning wide and patting his belly, like a kid in a candy store. "I guess we're about to fly south for a city break in Rio." He turns to Dean and adds, "We still got those passports that Bobby put together for us when we went to Scotland?"

Dean mutters, "I can't believe you got me on a plane for that. Fucking Crowley."

Sam laughs. "You only cried twice."

Dean drops his head to the table and groans, "I had something in my eye okay!"

They regroup at Missouri's place the following day. Castiel wants to spend the next couple of days before the trip working with the psychic to see if there is anything more they can pull out of the angel's noggin before they make their way south.

Dean knows he and Castiel have hit a rough patch. To say the least. But this time it feels like something Dean doesn't quite know how to fix. He takes a deep breath and presses against the warm hood of the Impala. The evening's covered by a deep red sky, and a cool wind is winding in from the west, drying the sweat on his skin. His runs his hands over his jeans; he's greasy with oil and dirt, and his body is way past tired. Dean thinks about how he's been hiding out here in the backyard all day, tinkering with the Impala because it's the only thing that ever settles his mind. The only thing that feels right when everything else feels off.

A thick canopy of trees surrounds his work area, creating an illusion of privacy from the main road. The sunlight above cuts through the tree branches in jagged, angular patterns, bouncing off of the dark skin of the Impala. Through the tree limbs, he can see Missouri's house, less than a yard away, and he wonders if she made her sweet potato fries and roast turkey sandwiches for lunch. His belly growls, but Dean refuses to go in quite yet.

Dean's putting his tools up when he hears the crunch of leaves behind him. He turns around and finds Castiel carrying two bottles of beer. "I thought you could use some form of refreshment," the angel says quietly, stepping into the copse of trees. "You've been out here all day."

Dean swallows. His lips are dry, and he licks them nervously. "Just wanted to make sure she's running good. I hate having to leave her behind."

Castiel gives Dean a long, considering look as he hands him one of the beers. "I hope you've been able to work through the things bothering you."

Dean frowns, fingers wrapping around the cool bottle. Castiel has always been too damn perceptive. "Yeah." He clears his throat, places his beer down on the workbench. Castiel continues to look at him closely, expression strangely guarded. Dean stares back, watching the shadows fall over his eyes, sharpening the rough edge of his face.

Dean scuffs the tip of his boot into the ground, before he circles the car. "Did you need anything else?" he asks, pausing to look at Castiel expectantly. He slides his left hand over the leg of his jeans, tapping his fingers in a nervous rhythm.

Castiel is quiet for another long moment, before he begins to speak. "Anna would often take me aside to explain a difficult new strategy she was planning for the garrison," the angel says, moving to stand against the front bumper of the Impala. "I was always surprised when she sought my council, but after a time I realized that she counted on my advice as much as I counted on her guidance and leadership."

"Cas, what…" Dean pauses, frowning. "I don't understand."

"Dean, when I was first considering disobedience, she told me that these feelings I had would only get worse," Castiel explains, ruffling a hand through his hair in an all-too-human gesture. "That free will, that choosing my own course of action, would be confusing, terrifying at best. I wanted her to be my commander again, to tell me what to do because Dean, for the first time in my long life, I was completely lost. But I had to stop and think for myself. I had to act for what I believed best."

"Do you ever regret it?" Dean asks quietly, because it's something he often wonders. He watches the angle's knuckles go tight and white around his beer bottle, watches a muscle in his jaw jump.

Castiel looks up at him, with eyes so alien, they almost glow. "I don't regret it," he says, voice rough. "Finding you changed the entire course of my existence. And I do _not_ regret it."

Dean turns around abruptly, heart beating wildly in his chest. The smell of the oil on his skin is suddenly too much. He picks up a rag and scrubs at his hands, trying to calm his breathing. He's wound so tight he flinches when Castiel presses long fingers against the back of his neck.

"I don't regret it," Castiel says again, and he breathes it on the nape of Dean's neck, so close, _too_ close, hovering there on the edge of Dean's fucked-up existence like he's been doing for the past five years. Waiting, watching, risking his hide for Dean. No matter how hard Dean pushed him away, how hard he shoved at him, Cas would push back even harder, with a force to rival Dean's own steel will.

Dean's tired, and he's so messed up, and Castiel is the most confusing thing he's ever been confronted with in his entire life. "I'm going to keep fucking this up," Dean confesses, words coming out raw.

"As will I," Castiel says, voice low and deep, like worn gravel. Castiel is heavy behind him, warm and solid, and Dean feels the strong weight of him pressing against his back. He allows Cas to slowly turn him around until they are face to face.

"Dean," Castiel says, rubbing his fingers against an oil stain on Dean's chin, stilling his fingers there along his cheek.

"I'm a mess." Dean's voice catches in his throat.

"As am I," Castiel says, and he prevents Dean from saying anything else by pushing him up against the Impala and crushing their mouths together. Castiel's lips are incredibly brutal and wet, and his hands pull tightly at Dean's hips, gripping them even harder as he licks over Dean's bottom lip, sliding deeper into his mouth.

The last of Dean's reserve breaks under Castiel's insistent touches, and Dean twists them around until he's pushing Cas up against the hood of the Impala, lips sliding along his neck, tasting salt and earth, the lasting remnants of the angel's work in the garden. Castiel tangles his hands in Dean's shirt, skimming his fingers under the hem to dig into the muscles of Dean's back.

  


Castiel pulls so hard at Dean's shirt, he eventually rips it, and Dean pulls himself free only to tear it the rest of the way off before working off Castiel's own shirt. Dean's smearing engine grease all over them, but Castiel doesn't seem to mind, yanking Dean up for another kiss that drags all the air from his lungs.

Dean winds Castiel up with his hands and lips, his mouth sliding down the hollow valley of the angel's throat, over the dips of his shoulders. He spreads his mouth across Castiel's tattoos, lips pressing softly over his brand. Castiel's own hands slide down Dean's waist, fingers grabbing at his belt, button, then fly, yanking it open and shoving his jeans and boxers down.

Dean steps away to kick the clothing free of his legs, and then Castiel slips out of his own clothes and shifts their positions, pressing Dean in front of him until Dean's bending over the hood of the Impala, his hands spreading across her dark shine. The heels of Castiel's palms fit the angle of Dean's hips, thumbs smoothing over the jut of bone. Castiel breathes warm against the back of Dean's neck, rough breaths against his ear, and his fingers brush the curve of Dean's bare ass, sliding up along the ridges of his spine.

Dean's fully naked, and gooseflesh covers his skin as the cool evening air hits him. He almost stops breathing when Castiel slides his hands up along his thighs, spreading Dean's legs even wider. Dean pushes his ass out as Castiel's fingers ghost over his cock.

Nothing matters right now, not the dreams or the apocalypse or the shit that's sure to follow them halfway across the world. All that matters is the way Castiel's fingers press into the flesh of Dean's thighs, the way Castiel's teeth drag along the back of Dean's neck, the words he whispers into Dean's skin, how every atom of Dean's body knows – _fucking knows_ – that Castiel is the one who found him, the one who remade him, the one who healed his soul.

The hood of the Impala is cool under Dean's palms, and his fingers slide across it, leaving sweaty fingerprints as he presses harder. Behind Dean, Castiel is a burning, heavy presence, and his fingers curl over Dean's hips, his chest pressing against Dean's back. Castiel thrusts forward then, slow and sure, and Dean hisses as he feels the heat of Castiel's cock pressing against his ass.

"Jesus, Cas," he whimpers when the angel's hips roll forward once again, his thick cock sliding along the cleft of Dean's ass, leaving a wet trail of pre-come on his skin. They stand like that for a long moment, Dean steadily rubbing his ass back along Castiel's hard cock. He swallows, thick and slow, his own cock grinding up against the cool metal side of the Impala. "Cas," he breathes out, "Please."

"Dean," Castiel whispers, breath hot sliding against Dean's neck. He shifts forward so that his cock nudges against Dean's hole, dragging velvety wet over the rim with careful, shallow thrusts that almost have Dean losing it. They haven't taken it much further than this, so close to the act, so close to becoming…but in the end Dean always shies away from the sort of intimacy that could shake him to the core, offer more than he's ready to give.

Dean closes his eyes, exhales as he feels Castiel reach around and take his dick in hand. Castiel fists Dean's cock slowly, thumbing over the head, spreading pre-come with every jerk. Dean bites back a groan as they find a rhythm together, moving faster, Castiel sliding his dick along the crease of Dean's ass as he jacks Dean off with a steady hand. Dean's fingers grapple against the hood of the Impala, slipping slightly as he tries to hold on.

Castiel kisses the back of Dean's neck as he rides his crack, his cockhead prodding at Dean's hole but never actually breaching it, just sliding down between his cheeks in a teasing motion that sends Dean sucking down each breath, the muscles of his ass trembling with the friction.

"Oh god," Dean groans, hips stuttering as he fucks deeper into Castiel's hand. Castiel squeezes him, jacking him harder, and Dean comes, shooting hard across the hood of the car, while the world bleeds heat and light all around him, a white fire that reminds him of the gates of Purgatory.

Dean's knees threaten to buckle beneath him, but Castiel wraps an arm around him, pulls him up against his chest and presses closer. It's all Dean can do just to keep breathing. The rich salt scent of his own seed fills his nose, but Dean's too lost in the feel of Castiel speeding up, sliding his cock back and forth between his cheeks, hitting his balls and groaning loudly in his ear. The tip of Castiel dick catches and drags against the rim of Dean's hole one last time, and then Castiel's coming so hard Dean can feel his release rack through his own body. Long ropes of come splatter across the small of Dean's back, dripping against his hole and down his thighs. Castiel rests his weight on Dean, catching his breath, burying his face in the nape of Dean's neck.

Sometime around seven, Dean and Missouri share a lasagna dinner at her kitchen table. It's a bit funny how with Bobby they usually have sit-down meals, but Missouri doesn't care when they flit through her kitchen as long as they grab a bite as they go. So that evening, it's only Dean and her. Mira and Sam had sneaked off earlier, and Castiel disappeared somewhere on his own after their 'talk' by the Impala.

Dean takes another bite of lasagna. The food's great. Missouri spiced the tomato sauce with herbs from her garden and added peas to the ground meat. Usually the béchamel sauce alone would have had Dean humming with pleasure, but today he just can't find the appetite.

Missouri, who's already finished her plate, is reading a newspaper and sipping from a glass of orange juice. Dean appreciates that he doesn't have to make conversation, but Missouri most likely knows that. He's tired, hollowed out by his latest confrontation with Cas and the sex that this time just doesn't seem to be the answer. With half of his lasagna left on his plate, he puts down his fork.

"You better eat up," Missouri tells him without looking up from her newspaper.

"Sorry, Missouri, I'm stuffed, I—"

The look she gives him then makes him think twice about finishing that sentence. Missouri waits until he starts eating again before she takes another swallow from her juice. Yet, even as Dean dutifully cleans his plate, he can feel Missouri's eyes on him.

She waits until he's mostly done, then she says, "I don't want to meddle."

Dean looks up. "But?"

"But are you sure you have time for this?" Missouri asks.

"Dinner?" Dean returns, mystified.

"Fighting with Castiel."

Dean clears his throat. So much for not making conversation, he thinks bitterly. "We're not fighting," he says.

"Please," Missouri scoffs. "My walls crackle when you two are in the same room."

Okay, that's interesting. "They do?"

"Uh huh."

Dean imagines it, him and Cas shaking Missouri's house like an earthquake. Although he'd rather make some noise with activities other than fighting. Dean smiles sadly and shakes his head. "I'm sorry we're being so much trouble," he says.

"You're not trouble," Missouri says, frowning. "And that's not my point."

Dean looks down and taps his fork against the side his plate. He knows he won't be able to trick Missouri off-topic so he doesn't try. If he's honest, part of him hopes she'll be able to give him some advice. God knows he needs it.

"I know you have a reason to be angry," Missouri tells him.

"I do?" Dean asks because most of the time he isn't so sure. Whatever pisses him off, it should pale before their bigger problems. Missouri's right, they don't have the time. He shouldn't even complain; his issues don't come close to the pressure Cas must feel when he remembers what he did before Purgatory. Not to mention Sam's struggle with the aftereffects of his broken wall. Really, Dean shouldn't act up like he does. He should be focusing on Sam and Cas, making sure they're okay. His own fears don't matter.

"I also know that you're scared," Missouri says, and no way could Dean look at her after that. He shoves the last remaining pea around on his plate.

"He doesn't want to die you know," Missouri says gently.

"He doesn't make a big effort to stop it from happening either," Dean murmurs.

Missouri crosses her arms on the table. She looks toward the kitchen window, at the tree limbs waving with the breeze. "Give him time," she says on a whisper, almost as if speaking to herself. "He's only just figuring out that it's okay to want things for himself. Even if he doesn't think he deserves them."

"He deserves them," Dean says quietly. _Cas deserves so much._

Missouri looks at him directly again, her eyes holding Dean still.

"What?" Dean prompts. He looks right back at her, but all she does is meet his gaze with such compassion it makes him feel very exposed, very small. What does she see in him that he doesn't understand? Dean isn't sure he wants to know.

"Sometimes you miss the obvious," Missouri says, her smile sad. "I was talking about you just now."

Dean frowns, looking away to concentrate on his plate. "I…" he says, pausing because he doesn't know what she wants him to say.

"Just let go a little," Missouri says finally. "Give both of you the time to trust what you have."

Dean lets out a breath. Maybe Missouri's right but he knows himself. Trusting what he has isn't his strong suit.

Finishing her orange juice, Missouri gets up, fetches a plate of chocolate chip cookies, and sets it down in front of Dean.

Dean pulls a face. "Aw, Missouri, I'm—"

"—not even halfway done," she finishes for him.

Upstairs in Missouri's guest bathroom, Dean stands in front of the mirror. He just stepped out of the shower, pulled on his jeans, but he hasn't pulled his t-shirt down over his head yet. With his arms bare, he turns his shoulder, looks at the handprint scar. It had faded in the years after Dean's return from the Pit, but since Purgatory it's been burning bright again, flaring red as if it were fresh, tingling with Castiel's close presence.

Once more Dean hears Missouri say, _You and Dean are special_.

Special, Dean thinks. Alastair's star pupil. A righteous man. An archangel's sword. He's never had good experiences with being 'special'.

Dean never wanted to have a central role, and he doesn't excel at it when he gets it. He fails. He fails to save Sam. He fails to save Cas. He makes a mess of his vocations, makes rash decisions, and chews out people if they make the same stupid mistakes he's made. What right has he to yell at Cas for choosing to put himself between the apocalypse and the world? It's no less than Dean would do, has done. Repeatedly. Dean knows how to sacrifice his own hide – it's the only thing he's ever been good for. But he can't take seeing Cas doing the same thing.

Missouri said Cas takes a lot of cues from the Winchesters, but these days Dean wishes Cas wouldn't. The closer they get to what's going on, the more Dean's afraid that he's dragging Cas down. If Cas takes his cues from Dean, what does he learn? How to be miserable? How to value your life so little you don't hesitate to give it up?

Castiel is so new at this whole being human thing. He should test himself, enjoy the possibilities, find out what he wants, like Missouri says. He shouldn't be tied to Dean. He wouldn't be, if Cthulhu's threat to humanity didn't demand that they fight together.

Yes, they're special. They're special in that they're thrown down onto the frontlines together. _We are soldiers_ , Castiel told him just the other night.

Maybe that's all they'll ever be. It shouldn't be that way. Dean doesn't want them to begin and end like that.

There's a pile of clothes on the floor, and Dean spots the t-shirt he'd worn out at the greenhouse tangled with Castiel's gray cotton tee. The one with the AC/DC logo in front, a hand-me-down from Dean. Dean remembers the first time he watched Cas put on his clothes, how good it made him feel. As if Cas had come home, come back to him. From the first, he liked Cas sharing his stuff, but perhaps it's time they untangled a bit. Dean can admit that most of their failed shopping trips to pick up new clothes for Cas come down to Dean not being ready to give up the image of seeing Cas at home in something as simple as Dean's shirt. So they never end up getting Cas many new things. But….Cas shouldn't need to depend on Dean's wardrobe anymore than he should have to suffer Dean second-guessing his decisions.

_Let go a little_ , Missouri had said. Maybe she's right, maybe he needs to back off. Let Cas go a little.

Even the thought of taking a step back ties Dean's stomach into a knot, but it's got to be the right decision. If nothing else, he can do with a bit more focus. They have other issues on their plate after all. So Dean vows to himself not to blow up in Castiel's face anymore, not to demand promises that Cas can't possible give. He won't bail or anything, he'll just…ease off a little. Who knows, maybe if he holds on a little less tightly, he won't feel so desperately angry all the time.

The window's open and the sound of a lawnmower rackets up from one of the neighboring houses. Dean gathers up their clothes and decides to head down into Missouri's cellar for a last round of laundry before they leave.

"Your brother and Cas seem out of sorts," Mira says.

"Huh?" Sam asks, and looks up from the roadmap he'd been studying. He's leaning against the railing of Missouri's porch while Mira's perched on top of it. His elbow rests close to her thigh, and she's toying with the tips of his long hair, stirring them against the nape of his neck with one finger. Sam leans into Mira's touch before he follows her gaze.

Down on the street, Castiel's busy loading luggage into the Impala's trunk. Dean migrates back and forth between the car and the house, carrying the weapons they won't be able to bring along into Missouri's pantry.

Mira's right, Sam thinks. Usually each of them buzzes around the other's personal space, bumping shoulders and hips 'by accident' so often it's more than a little amusing. Today they keep a distance, though, and Dean avoids Castiel's gaze.

"Huh," Sam repeats. "Maybe they had a rough night."

" _We_ had a rough night," Mira corrects. She slips a hand under Sam's shirt and splays her fingers over the small of Sam's back. "Not that I'm complaining."

Sam laughs. "What's to complain?"

Mira grins and leaves her hand on Sam's bare skin even when Dean walks up to them. Looks like packing's almost done, Sam decides.

"You guys need another minute?" Dean asks, smiling at them.

"Nope," Mira says and hops off the railing. "I don't do goodbyes."

She kisses Sam's cheek and strolls down the steps of the porch, all long legs in scuffed jeans, and henna patterns flashing across her muscled, tanned arms, shown off by her tanktop. Sam loves her easy gait, and the charm bracelet around her left wrist that just covers the small tattoo of a flying bird. Damn, Sam already misses her.

"Stay in touch," he calls after her, and she looks back over her shoulder with a knowing smile.

"You too, sexy."

As Mira's leaving Dean looks pointedly at Sam's rucked up t-shirt. "She cop a good feel?" he asks, waggling his brows.

"God, you're a pig," Sam states placidly. "I refuse to be related to you."

Together they turn and head for the Impala. At the back of the car, Castiel's still busy arranging their luggage.

"What about you and the husband?" Sam asks. "Everything all right?"

"Jeez, you're funny," Dean counters. "'Course we're all right."

"Only you have weird-face," Sam insists.

"What?" Dean glares at him. "I don't have weird-face."

"Yes you do."

"Well, my weird-face is none of your business," Dean snaps.

Sam snorts. "Very mature."

"I'm awesome that way." Dean motions his chin at the map in Sam's hand. "Is that a map of Brazil?"

"Nice deflection," Sam says. "And, yes, it is. I wanted to see where we're going."

"And where are we going?"

"Closer to the ocean."

"Naturally."

As they reach the Impala Dean heaves a sigh. "Remember when beaches were paradise on earth?" he asks.

"Must've been before BP sunk five million barrels of oil into the Gulf of Mexico."

"You're a ball of sunshine you know that?"

Sam chuckles. He leans on the hood of the Impala and catches Dean's wince. "What?" Sam twists around to look down on the hood. "Did you wax her?"

For reasons that completely escape Sam, Dean's face flushes as red as a beet, but before Sam can prod, Bobby and Missouri come out of the house to join them.

"You boys finished?" Bobby grumbles. "Or are you jabbering instead of packing the damn car?"

"We're finished," Castiel calls. He closes the trunk and walks up to the front of the Impala. He stops beside Sam's shoulder and once again Sam's aware how Castiel and Dean look everywhere but at each other.

"You be careful now," Missouri says, looking around at them with her hands clasped in front of her. "The world's a lot more dangerous today than it has been before."

"You too, Missouri," Dean says. "Thank you for everything. Really."

Missouri raises a brow, but there's an amused glint in her eyes. "Dean Winchester, are those good manners?"

Dean smirks. "You said I needed to work on that."

Missouri hugs him, then seizes him by the shoulders and frowns. It seems like she's reading something off of him, a thought maybe, or an errant emotion. She lets go of him and stares at him for a long moment.

  


"Don't be a fool, now," Missouri tells him quietly.

Sam raises a brow, but Dean just leans in and kisses her on the cheek. "I'm gonna miss your cookin'."

Missouri clucks her tongue and, to Sam's never-ending delight, pokes a finger into Dean's ribs. "Oh, I bet you will."

Sam's still laughing over Dean's outraged face when Missouri steps forward to hug him next. "You're doing better now, aren't you?" she whispers in Sam's ear.

"Yes." Sam smiles. "Much."

"You've always been so strong, Sam," she says, sounding proud. "Take care of yourself, and watch out for those two knuckleheads riding with you. They'll need you."

Sam swallows back something hot pushing up from his guts, and instead squeezes Missouri tighter in his big embrace. "I will."

"That girl of yours is a keeper too," Missouri says softly before going over to Castiel then, as Dean comes to stand next to Sam. "How come she never harasses you?" Dean asks as he rubs his side.

"Because I'm the good brother," Sam says, teasing.

"Harharhar," Dean mutters, scowling softly.

Off to the left, Missouri embraces Castiel, and he hugs her back. Now those two, they've really taken a liking to each other. Sam turns to make another joke to Dean, but the words freeze on his lips.

As Missouri and Castiel say their goodbyes, Dean watches them with an odd kind of sadness on his face. It's a lot like the closed-off, tired expression Dean wore the night Sam went off to Stanford, and Sam has no idea why Dean looks like that now. It's deeply unsettling.

When Dean notices Sam's eyes on him, he quickly masks his sorrow behind a wry smile.

"I guess we know who her favorite is," Dean says with a fake chuckle. He turns over to talk with Bobby, but Sam can't shake the unease Dean's expression stirred in him. He looks back at Missouri and Castiel, sees Missouri frame the angel's face in both her hands. "Come back when your work's done," Sam hears her say. "We'll make tea with the herbs we planted."

As she steps back, Castiel takes her hands and gently kisses the back of her fingers. "Thank you, Missouri."

"Sam?" Dean asks, startling Sam from his observations. "You ready?"

"Yeah," Sam says.

"All right." Dean claps Bobby on the back and walks around the car, making it to the driver's door just as Castiel climbs into the shotgun seat.

Back on the sidewalk, Bobby takes a hold of Sam's shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. "Look after yourself, son," he says. "And watch out for feathers and your idjit brother. They need you."

"Yeah," Sam laughs. "I know they do."

Bobby tilts his mouth in one of his barely-there smiles and for a moment he looks so surprisingly proud, Sam's breath catches in his throat. He pats Sam's shoulder and turns away, the shadow of his baseball cap falling over his face.

"See you around, kid," Bobby says, and Sam nods.

"See you around."


End file.
